Girl Missing (10 page)

After he’d sent Isabel home, Adam holed up in his study and nursed a much-needed glass of brandy. His head ached, his eyes were bleary, and his ribs hurt like hell when he took a deep breath, but he couldn’t quite drag himself off to bed yet.

He kept playing and replaying that terrifying image from tonight: Kat Novak, down on her knees, her hair yanked back, her throat bared. And the switchblade, pressing against her flesh. He closed his eyes and tried to shut it out, but couldn’t. At the instant he’d seen it, he’d lost
all fear for himself, had stopped caring what would happen to
him
. All he knew was that they were going to kill her, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, not a single damn thing.

He clutched the brandy glass and drained it in one neat gulp.
She came through it better than I did
, he thought.

But then, Kat Novak was something extraordinary. A true survivor who would land on her feet every time. Considering her roots, she
had
to be a survivor. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.

He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

Finally he set down the brandy glass and hauled himself out of the chair. On the way out of the room, he passed the photo of Maeve. It sat on the end table, a quiet portrait of his smiling stepdaughter. Was Maeve smiling much these days?

He should have known. He should have seen it coming.

He had no excuses, except that he’d felt overwhelmed, by his work, by single fatherhood, by a daughter who was so traumatized by her mother’s death that she slipped into an eternally sullen adolescence. He couldn’t talk to
her; after a while he’d given up trying and had resorted to a father’s tactic of last resort: asserting his authority. That hadn’t worked, either.

By the time he’d realized Maeve was in trouble, it was too late. She was on a constant high—booze, pills, everything, anything.

Like Georgina.

Maybe it was in their genes, some cruel twist in their DNA that preordained their addictions. Maybe it was simply that they couldn’t cope with life or stress.

Or was it him?

He turned away from the photograph and climbed the stairs. Once again, alone to bed. It didn’t have to be this way. It had been clear tonight that Isabel was ready and willing—and frustrated by his lack of interest. They’d known each other for years, had been seeing each other on a regular basis for months. Shouldn’t he be making
some
kind of move?

But tonight, when she’d driven him to his door, he’d taken a good look at her. She was perfect, of course—her hair, her dress, her smile—perfect in every way. And yet he felt no interest whatsoever in taking her to bed. He’d looked at her, and all he could see was Kat
Novak, her face as bruised as a prizefighter’s, grinning at him by the light of that Bellemeade streetlamp.

Wonderful
, he thought.
After all these years I finally admit to the possibility of romance, and look who inspires it. A woman who almost gets me killed over some beat-up Subaru
.

Could there be a less promising match?

Kat woke up with every muscle in her body aching. It took a massive infusion of willpower just to roll out of bed. She went into the bathroom and saw, in the mirror, the evidence of last night’s brawl: three neat stitches on her neck and the bruises and scrapes on her face. So it hadn’t been a nightmare after all.

She managed to wash around that painful minefield of facial cuts and sweep her hair back in a ponytail. Forget the makeup; she’d wear her bruises to work instead.

Downstairs, fueled by a cup of extra-strength Yuban, she started in on the tasks at hand: canceling her credit cards and her bank card, replacing her driver’s license. When the punks had grabbed her purse, they’d made off with most of her financial identity. At least she still had her
checkbook—she’d left it safely at home last night. She made one last call, begging a locksmith to come change her locks ASAP. Then she got up and poured herself another cup of coffee. The caffeine was having its blessed effect—she was feeling human again. And feisty. Getting beaten up and robbed wasn’t good for her disposition.

So when she heard the footsteps on her front porch, she was expecting the worst. Were the punks there already to try out her house keys?

She scurried into the living room, grabbed the baseball bat out of the front closet, and stood poised by the front door. When she heard the clink of keys, she raised the bat, expecting the door to swing open any second.

Instead the mail slot squealed open, and a set of car keys slid through and clattered to the wood floor. Kat stared at them. What the hell?

Whoever had dropped them off was now walking away. She yanked open the door and saw Adam Quantrell’s butler climb into a car driven by another man.

“Hey!” Kat yelled, waving the keys. “What’s this?”

The butler waved back and called, “Compliments of Mr. Quantrell!”

Bewildered, Kat watched them drive off. Then her gaze shifted to her driveway.

A lemon-yellow Mercedes was parked there.

She looked down at the keys she was holding. Then she went to the driveway and slowly circled the car. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
REGIS LUXURY RENTALS
, said the license plate frame. She peered in the window—leather seats.
Clean
. She opened the door, climbed in behind the wheel, and just sat there for a moment. There was a note taped to the dashboard, addressed to
Dr. Novak
. She unfolded the slip of paper and read it.

Hope this will do. A. Q
.

She sat back. “Well, I just don’t know, Mr. Quantrell,” she said aloud. “Lemon yellow isn’t
quite
my color. But I suppose it will have to do.” Then she threw her head back and laughed.

At work, she stopped laughing.

Davis Wheelock told her the mayor had vetoed the idea of any press conference.

“You can’t be serious,” said Kat.

Wheelock looked genuinely apologetic. “I
explained the situation to the mayor and his staff. I told them we’d had two deaths—”

“Three, Davis. Nicos Biagi died. I’ve had it classified an ME case.”

“All right, three. I told them the trend was not good. But they felt a press conference was premature.”

“At what point does this crisis become mature?”

Wheelock shook his head. “It’s not in my power to go around them. The line of authority’s clear. When it comes to press releases, the mayor has final say.”

“Maybe you weren’t persuasive enough.”

“Maybe we should ride this out a bit. See what develops.”

“I can tell you what’ll develop. And it won’t be good press.” She leaned across Wheelock’s desk. “Davis, we’re going to come out of this looking incompetent. When all hell breaks loose, do you think the mayor’s going to take the rap? We will.
You
will.”

Wheelock was looking more and more unhappy.

“Let me talk to them,” said Kat. “I’ll bring in Dr. Dietz from Hancock General as my authority. This news has to get out, and soon.
Before South Lexington turns into a graveyard.”

For a moment, Wheelock said nothing. Then he nodded. “All right. You take care of it. But don’t be surprised if they slap you down.”

“Thanks, Davis.”

Back in her office, the first call she made was to the mayor’s secretary. She learned that His Honor had a hole in his appointment book at one o’clock and she might be able to slip in then, but there were no guarantees.

The second call she made was to Hancock General. Unfortunately, Dr. Michael Dietz was not on duty in the ER.

“Is there any way I can reach him?” asked Kat. “This is urgent. I’ve booked us into the mayor’s office at one o’clock.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the ER clerk.

“Why?”

“Dr. Dietz has left town. He resigned from the staff. Effective yesterday evening.”

During his three and a half years in office, Mayor Sampson had presided over the worst economic slide in Albion’s history. To be fair, it
wasn’t entirely his fault—across the country, cities were reeling from the recession. But with three major plant closings, a host of business bankruptcies, and an inner city rotting at its core, Albion had suffered worse than most. So it struck Kat as more than a little ironic that the bicentennial poster displayed behind the receptionist’s desk showed a slick couple in evening dress, dancing before a view of the night skyline.

ALBION—A CITY FOR ALL REASONS
.

Nolan Sampson, Mayor
.

It was, of course, just your typical election-year hype. How convenient for His Honor that the celebration just happened to coincide with the kickoff for his reelection campaign.

She approached the receptionist. “I’m Dr. Novak, ME’s office. Is there a chance I could get in to see Mayor Sampson?”

“I’ll check.” The receptionist pressed the intercom. “Mayor Sampson? There’s a doctor here from the ME’s office. Are you free?”

“Uh, yeah. We just finished lunch. Send him in,” Kat heard from the speaker.

Him? He must think I’m Wheelock
, she
thought. She opened the door and masculine laughter spilled out. Just inside the office, she halted.

The mayor was behind his desk, puffing on a cigar. In a nearby chair sat the acting district attorney—Kat’s ex-husband.

“Hello, Ed,” said Kat stiffly. “Mayor Sampson.”

Both men looked surprised. “It’s you,” Ed said, for want of anything else to say. She noticed he’d spiffed up his wardrobe since their divorce. He had a new suit, Italian shoes, a shirt that looked like 100 percent linen.
Just think of all those wrinkles. I wonder who he’s got ironing his shirts these days
.

“Is this … official business?” asked the mayor, looking bewildered.

“Yes,” said Kat. “Davis Wheelock spoke to you yesterday. About that press conference.”

“What? Oh.” Sampson waved his hand in dismissal. “You mean the junkies. Yeah, we talked about it.”

“I think it’s time to go to the press, sir,” said Kat. “We’ve had three deaths.”

“I thought it was two.”

“Another OD died last night. At Hancock General.”

“Have you confirmed it’s the same drug?”

“Let’s just say my suspicions are running high.”

“Ah.” Sampson sat back, suddenly at ease. “So you don’t have confirmation.”

“Toxicology screens take time. Especially when the drug’s an unknown. By the time we get a positive ID, we could have a full-blown crisis in South Lexington.”

Ed laughed. “South Lexington
is
a crisis.”

Kat ignored him. “All I’m asking for is a statement to the press. Call in the local news stations. Tell them we’ve got some bad stuff on the streets. Junkies are dying.”

The mayor glanced at Ed with an amused expression. “Some would say that’s progress.”

“Sir,” said Kat, trying to stay calm, “you have to let people know.”

“Now, therein lies our problem,” said Mayor Sampson, shifting forward in his chair. “Dr. Novak, in case you’re not aware of it, we have a bicentennial celebration coming up. Parade, marching bands, the whole nine yards. We have the heads of eight major corporations coming to town to join in the fun. And to look us over, see if they like us. We’re talking jobs
they could bring to Albion. But they won’t bring a
thing
to town if they start seeing headlines like
Junkie Epidemic
or
Grim Reaper Stalks City
. They’ll just move their companies to Boston or Providence instead.”

“So what do you suggest?” asked Kat. “We sweep it under the rug?”

“Not exactly. We just … wait awhile.”

“How long?”

“Until you’ve got more information. Next week, say.”

“A lot of people can die in a week.”

“Lighten up, Kat,” Ed cut in. “These aren’t the pillars of society we’re talking about. These are the same folks who mug old ladies and hold up gas stations. The same folks I’m already sticking in jail.” He paused. “The same folks who ripped off your car.”

“How did you hear about that?” Kat snapped.

Ed grinned. “We hear a lot of things at the office. Like who’s been filing stolen car reports.”

“Forget my car. I want to know when we can see some action on this.”

“I think I answered that question, Dr. Novak,” said Mayor Sampson.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Christ,” Sampson said with a sigh. “You can’t even prove to me these deaths are related. Why go and get the whole town panicked about it?”

Ed added, “They’re only junkies.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You know what, Ed?” she said with a laugh. “It’s a continuing source of wonder to me.”

“What is?”

“What the hell I ever saw in you.” She turned and walked out of the room.

Ed followed her through the receptionist’s office and into the hallway. “Kat, wait up.”

“I’m going back to work.”

“Just love those stiffs, huh?”

“Compared with present company? Don’t ask.” She got into the elevator, and he slipped in beside her.

“Looks like life’s been rough since you left me,” he said, glancing at her bruised face with a grin.

“Not nearly as rough as it was
with
you. And you left me, remember?”

“You know, you really blew it in there with Sampson. Next time you should try a little
honey, not so much vinegar. It’d be better for your career.”

“I see
your
career doesn’t need any help,” she said, glancing at his tailored shirt.

He grinned. “You heard that Sampson endorsed me? The campaign coffers are already loaded.”

“Be careful whose coattails you grab onto. Sampson’s days are numbered.”

They stepped out of the elevator and left the building.

“It’s just a stepping-stone,” he said. “Today, DA. Tomorrow—who knows? Are you coming to the campaign benefit? I could use you there. Show of support from the ME’s office.”

“I’ve got better ways to spend my money.”

He reached in his pocket and produced an invitation. “Here.” He dropped it in her purse. “My compliments. Will you vote for me, at least?”