From Cape Town with Love (23 page)

PRIVATE CALLER
, my screen said. Was it the kidnappers?

“Tennyson.”

I recognized her sob before she spoke. “Are you all right?” Sofia Maitlin whispered.

“God, Sofia, I'm so, so sorry,” I said. My legs folded beneath me. Suddenly, I was sitting against the wall, half a foot from the urinal. The smell was sharp, making me want to vomit again, but I couldn't move. The tiles were cold through the seat of my pants.

“Of course,” she said. “I know you are.”

“It was going fine, according to the agreement, and then Roman freaked out and went after them. He was gone before I could stop him. He shot one of their guys, and it went to hell.”

I owed Maitlin the truth as I saw it.

Footsteps in the hallway brought me to my feet, and I leaned on the wall for support, the way my father did at home. The footsteps passed me, fast and sure down the hall.

“Nandi?” Maitlin said, whispering. I wondered if she was hiding, too.

“I
had
her. She wasn't hurt. I was carrying her in my arms before they took her back.”

Maitlin sobbed quietly. “Everyone said to call the police. If I had, Roman wouldn't be . . .”

He wouldn't be dead if he hadn't lost his mind either,
I thought.

“Roman made a choice,” I said. “He knew the risks. So did I.”

“But they said they would kill her if we told anyone! I thought it would be better to keep quiet. Can you understand?” Maitlin needed forgiveness, too. “Everyone knows now.”

“The publicity's a
good
thing,” I said. “She's everywhere because of who you are, and someone's seen her. It's the best weapon you have. It's exactly what they
didn't
want.”

Unfortunately, the massive publicity would make Nandi's kidnappers desperate, and I knew they must be arguing about their next move. They might kill Nandi without ever wanting to. The next phone call, if another came, might be our last chance.

“Have you heard from them?” I said.

“Nothing.” A tight squeak. “I borrowed this phone. I'm keeping mine clear.”

“The FBI's shutting me out,” I said. “There's a court order.”

“That's Alec. My way didn't work, so now it's his way. How can I argue?”

“Don't argue. I'm glad the FBI is there, but I need somebody to keep me in the loop.” I needed to fulfill my promise to Nandi's frightened eyes.

“Tennyson . . . ,” Maitlin began. “Do you think . . . ?”

She'd be a fool not to wonder if Nandi was sleeping in a shallow grave.

“People who kill children don't let people like me live,” I said, assuring myself as much as Maitlin. “They smell the money now. No matter what, make them believe you'll pay more. He talked like a businessman. He doesn't want to hurt Nandi. If Roman hadn't pissed them off, I believe it would have gone down just like we agreed.
We
broke the agreement first.”

“I just talked to Wendy,” Maitlin said. “Poor woman. With those kids!”

I didn't ask about her conversation with Roman's widow. Wendy would accept all the solace she could gather today; tomorrow, she'd probably file a lawsuit against Maitlin.

“Was Nandi wearing the same dress? From the party?” Maitlin said suddenly.

Red T-shirt, no logo. Red shorts. I told Maitlin what I'd told the FBI, and then I added details I'd saved for her. “Her hair wasn't combed, but she was clean,” I said. “Fresh clothes. She looked fine. She was drinking juice. They're taking care of her.” They were, anyway.

“Her hair!” Maitlin said, her tone lighter, far away. “Oh, I can just see it . . .”

“Nandi recognized me. ‘Mister Ten!' she said. I told her we had to run, and she said, ‘Really fast?'” When I mimicked Nandi's delight, Maitlin laughed, or sobbed, or both. My hushed lullaby went on: “She said she wanted her mommy . . .”

Sofia Maitlin finally had the chance to visit her daughter.

Sleep was the last thing on my mind at home, but no one could have slept with so many helicopters beating overhead, an airborne assault. The FBI had sidelined me into a circus tent.

Inside, the house was silent. The television set in the living room was off. I'd tried watching TV for updates on Nandi, but it was too jarring.
Last person with Nandi. Held for questioning. Restraining order.
Fox News was already running clips of my old TV series,
Homeland,
and my image played above the bright red question:
Who Is Tennyson Hardwick?
In Hollywood, the caption should have said,
Who WAS Tennyson Hardwick?

Nelson had put it best: Kiss your life good-bye.

Chela was upstairs monitoring her bedroom TV at a low volume; finally, she'd found the perfect job. I'd asked her to write down anything she thought I should know, but for the past two hours, all she'd reported was recap and supposition. No actual news. Chela was supposed to be in school, but we were having a family emergency.

Distraction can be deadly, so I put the noise out of my mind. When your day already feels like a bad dream, it's easy to pretend it isn't real.

The FBI had shut me out, but I'd been ready for them—just in case. I'd emailed myself the data Roman and I had compiled before the last call
from the kidnappers. I'd stashed a flash drive in the glove compartment of my Prius, but my car was now a part of a crime scene, so I was glad I'd emailed the file as a backup. With FBI involvement, I'd probably lost my email and phone privacy, too, but I'd sent my data to an encrypted site they would have to hunt harder for.

I was never a Boy Scout, but I try to stay prepared.

My house was a command center. I'd built a makeshift office in the tiny panic room Alice had converted from a pantry before she died, one of our house's most practical features. Without the shelves, the panic room had space for a card table and two folding chairs. The room, hidden behind a massive wine shelf, had once sheltered Chela. Now the room sheltered me while I searched for Nandi.

I used Dad's laptop—a Christmas present that was still barely out of the box—just in case my desktop and laptop were confiscated later in the day. It had happened before, after my friend Serena was murdered. Dad's computer was a slim precaution, but at least I had an option.

Dad paced the small room with his cane, studying the pages I'd taped to the walls: lists of names and telephone numbers, and businesses hired for Nandi's birthday party. I was relieved to have my father standing over my shoulder. I'd made a horrible mistake in judgment with Roman, but I was in sure hands again.

“Tom Hanks's limo driver was found unconscious,” I said. “Behind the wheel, apparently drunk, two miles down Mulholland. Swears he doesn't know how he got there.”

“What do you think?”

“Someone at that party knocked him out, took his place, smuggled Nandi into that limo . . . and then just drove out the front gate.”

“Description?”

“The driver never saw a thing. One minute he was smoking a cigarette, and the next . . . a cop was shaking him awake.”

Dad nodded with a heavy, angry sigh. “Professionals.”

“Wonder if they put her in the trunk. It's risky on a sunny day like Sunday. She could have died.”

“Not if they weren't going far,” Dad said.

Of course. A limo driver could have pulled into a gas station, or stopped at a corner, and transferred Nandi to another vehicle. Hanks
would never have known anything was wrong until he had to hitch a ride with Angela Bassett and Courtney Vance. It was common for limo drivers to run errands during long waits.

“I need to look at the tape again,” I said, firing up my computer screen. I'd made a digital copy of about forty minutes at the front gate, twenty minutes before Nandi's vanishing, and twenty minutes after. “We weren't looking for cars coming
in,
only going out.”

“Leave that angle alone,” Dad said. “I'll tell Nelson to follow up.”

I looked up at him, but he kept his eyes away from me, reading the walls.

“Dad, Nelson's not gonna give a damn—”

“Whoever clocked this limo guy is long gone, Ten. You know why? 'Cuz ya'll made a damn phone call instead of sending a SWAT team. You did your best, but you needed more.” Dad's voice was pained. My decision not to call the police baffled him.

“Nelson doesn't want to hear any leads from me,” I said.

“Don't get caught messing with the FBI's case, Ten.” Dad said it with hushed urgency, like the most important advice he had left. “You hear me?”

You hear?
I had said that to Nandi, slipping into my father's language. Unexpected words and images took me back to the football stadium. To Nandi's tears.

“I'll take my chances,” I said. “I don't know if Nelson is a real cop, or just a yes-man.”

“How you gonna talk about
real cops?”
Dad said, so angry that he spat. “Nelson
is
a cop. Nelson and the FBI are three steps ahead.” He swept his arm toward the wall as if my papers were preschool drawings. “This ain't shit! Snap their fingers, this is all done.”

And all-night grilling by the FBI couldn't cut me like one sentence from my father. I'd suspected what he thought—now I knew. Richard Allen Hardwick spoke his mind.

“Go on and do this any way you want,” Dad went on. “You're a grown-ass man, Ten. But if something happens to that little girl, you're gonna be in Hell, son. Hell is walking and breathing after you cost somebody's life.”

“I'm already there,” I said.

“Trust me, you ain't there. Not yet. You better weigh every choice you make today like gold. If the FBI locks you up, you don't
get
another chance.”

No wonder my father's men used to call him Preach. My father had given me some powerful sermons in my life, but this was his first in a long while. My father knew about living in Hell. He'd always blamed himself for my mother's death, as if he should have seen the cancer inside her. Maybe he'd been in Hell since Vietnam, one way or another.

“I lost my chance,” I said. My voice broke.

“Maybe so, son. But don't try to be the FBI. Stick to what
you
know. You were there. Get out of their way, look where they
won't
look. Or what good are you?”

Dad sharpened my focus. He was right: I had to concentrate on last night.

“The man with the knife,” I said.

“What about him?”

I told Dad about the knife-fighting style, and how dismissive Fanelli had been when I described it. Dad nodded, and some of the grimness left his lips. “Might be something.”

Dad's nod gave me hope. A growing hole in my gut was certain that Nandi was dead, or might as well be. But hope might keep me on my feet.

My morning got its first sunshine when Dad's lady friend, Marcela, stuck her head into the pantry. Marcela Ruiz was in her late forties, my father's former nurse, and she was hinting about marrying Dad. She had undergone a makeover since I'd first met her, with sassy haircuts and highlights to complement her shrinking waistline. Dad was twenty-six years older than Marcela, but she had seen something special in my father when the rest of the world saw only a dying man. For two years, Marcela had been like a stepmother.

That day, Marcela was answering my doorbell and telephone landline, shooing reporters away. I'd asked her not to interrupt me unless it was important.

“Ten, you have a visitor!” Marcela said. I couldn't understand her smile—until I saw who was standing behind Marcela's shoulder.

April Forrest was in my kitchen.

April was wearing a dress, rare for her. Her dark office attire looked like grieving clothes.

When we hugged, I rested my chin on her shoulder and let my eyes fall shut. We hadn't kept in touch much at all since Cape Town, except when I answered her occasional polite emails—my choice, not hers. I knew people who stayed friends with their exes, like Jerry and Elaine on
Seinfeld,
but it hadn't worked for me.

That day, the past was a million miles behind us.

“You okay?” April said. I bit my lip, shaking my head, just enough for her to see. When she lightly touched my cheek, it helped as much as anything could. “What can I do?” she said.

“Are you here as a reporter, April?” Bluntness was all I had time for.

“Ex-reporter,” April said, and I could give her only a confused look. “I got laid off two weeks ago. I'm a civilian now, just like you. I'm here for whatever you need.”

We had catching up to do, but our reunion didn't last long. My phone rang, and my heart jumped.
WILDE LAW CENTER
, it said.

“Shit,” I said. “My lawyer's a damn clock. She tries every thirty minutes.”

“She knows you need to give a statement to the press. Someone should speak for you, Ten, even if it's just to say you can't discuss the case.”