Heart of the Night (15 page)

“You look tired.”

She gave a short, high-pitched laugh. “Why is everyone always telling me that?”

“Maybe because it's true. And they care.”

She looked at him. “You don't care. Not in that way. You don't know me.” But as he looked back at her, she wondered. While his features remained strong, there was a look in his eyes that was so intimate and touching that either he knew her as well as anyone, or everything about him was a lie.

Not up to deciding which was true at that moment, she sighed. “Anyway. You're right. I am tired.” With her arms stretched straight in her pockets again, she took another step toward the door. But Jared was turning away, this time to fade Randy Travis out and Rosanne Cash in. As soon as he came back to her, she said, “Could I take a look at the records of those calls?”

“Now?”

“Tomorrow.”

“It'll take me a few hours to get them together.”

“That's okay. If you let me know when they're ready, I'll come by.” She looked at the door, then at the two large speakers, then at the control panel, and asked hesitantly, “Can I leave?”

Crossing the sound booth, he pushed the door open. She passed him, went to her briefcase, and removed a business card from inside.

“My number,” she said, handing him her card.

He studied it, ran his forefinger along its top, pursed his lips.

She turned away for her coat. “There may be nothing in your records worth pursuing—”

“In the ideal situation, what would you like to find?”

“A call that makes some reference to crime or money or the station's logo.”

“But what good will that do you? You'll have no idea who made the call.”

Lifting the collar of the coat, she turned to him. “True, but then we can put a tap on your phone. If a kidnapper called once, he's apt to call again.”

“It's a long shot.”

“I know.” Looking at him, she suddenly wanted to stay. But she had work to do in the morning. “Jared? What I've told you—it's strictly confidential. If word leaks out about the kidnapping and the press picks it up—”

His raised hand interrupted her. “What you've told me stops here.”

“Thanks,” she said softly. Again, she had an overwhelming urge to stay. There was something about Jared's strength, the gentleness of the hands that had touched her, the understanding in his expression. Going out into the cold night and back to a dark and empty apartment didn't appeal to her in the least. But it had to be done.

And, besides, he hadn't invited her to stay.

“I hope I haven't put you out in any way.”

He tossed a glance at the control panel. “My ‘string of six' still has a few to go. Maybe I'll interrupt it just to remind people I'm here, but I sometimes think they do just fine without me.”

“No, no. They tune in because of you.”

“Because of my voice. They like it, so they fantasize. But they're not tuning in because of me. Any guy with a deep voice and a lazy drawl would do.”

Savannah didn't argue further, because to some extent she wanted to believe he was right. Let any guy with a deep voice and a lazy drawl take over for him. Then she'd have him all to herself, without half the female population of Rhode Island as competition.

Then again, she was being foolish. If she had Jared Snow all to herself, she wouldn't know what to do with him. She was constantly busy and the only time she missed a man was during the late-night hours, and she couldn't ask a man to wait around for just those few moments. Besides, that was when Jared worked.

“Go on in,” she said, tossing her chin toward the sound booth. “I've kept you long enough.” She put the straps of her briefcase in place.

“I'll call you tomorrow.”

The thought warmed her. “Thanks.” She glanced at the pizza, which had to be stone cold. “Don't, uh, forget to eat.”

Following her gaze, he grunted. “I'll heat it in the microwave when I play a reel-to-reel. That will buy me ten minutes.”

Nodding, she headed for the door. “Bye,” she said softly.

He dipped his head in a short salute, then turned into the sound booth. Returning through the hall, then the front foyer, Savannah let herself out.

As soon as she started the car, she turned the radio on.

“WCIC Providence, 95.3 on your FM dial, this is Jared Snow keepin' you company in the heart of the night. That last song was a former chart-topper by Rosanne Cash. She's gettin' some competition from Kathy Mattea, who'll be singin' live at the Severence Coffee House next Monday night. Catch Conway Twitty this Saturday at the civic center, or catch him right now at 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. Listen good on the long drive home.…”

The drive home wasn't really long, but Savannah listened anyway. By the time she pulled into her garage and went upstairs, Jared had spoken twice. Each time, her pulse raced. And she let it. Thinking about Jared was better than thinking about Megan, and Jared Snow was a distraction of the sweetest kind. He said it himself—people fantasized about his voice. Now Savannah could fantasize about more. Nothing would ever really happen between Jared and her. She knew that. And that was why fantasizing was fun. It was convenient, comfortable, and safe.

She climbed into bed, pulled the covers up high, and listened in the dark to his voice.

“… so get tucked in and enjoy. I'll be right here, listenin' with you in cool country, 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. Jared Snow in the heart of the night.”
His voice became deeper, more intimate.
“And now, I've got ‘Georgia on My Mind'.…”

It was a long time before Savannah's heart slowed down enough to allow her to sleep, but when it did, she slept more soundly than usual, which was a good thing. Shortly after seven the next morning, Sam called to say that the kidnappers had phoned. The switch was scheduled for that night.

It was going to be a long, tense day.

C
HAPTER
7

At eight o'clock Thursday morning, Savannah was in the Vandermeers' basement, listening to a playback of the call. It was short and concise, coolly professional.

“Hello?” Will had said.

The voice that answered him was just muffled enough to complicate voiceprint analysis without obliterating the words. Its sound was unearthly, chilling Savannah to the bone.

“Do you have the money?” it demanded.

“Yes.”

“Small denominations. In a brown grocery bag.”

“I want to talk to my wife.”

“Tonight. Just you. Eight o'clock.” The voice rattled off an address that meant nothing to Savannah. “There's a dumpster at the corner. Put the money in and leave. Try anything funny with the cops and you won't see the lady again.”

“Will she be there—my wife, will she be there?”

“Once the money is safe, she'll be dropped at a phone booth.”

“She has to be there when I drop the money. She has to be there. I have to know she's all right—”

The line went dead.

Trembling inside, Savannah swallowed hard. “No Megan,” she whispered and swore softly. They had been counting on some reassurance that Megan was well, but the kidnappers had denied them that, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it.

Struggling to accept the setback calmly, she looked up at Sam. “Can we get a number?”

“It's on the way. Don't hold your breath, though. The call was probably made from a phone booth miles from where they're holding her.”

“Did you hear any background noise?”

“I didn't. The lab might. We'll get them working on it.”

“Do you know the drop spot?”

“Sure do. It's a construction site in the West End. There's a dumpster there, plus a lot of dark alleys. He could come and go in any one of a dozen different directions. The site is like a maze. The only chance we stand of catching him would be to cordon off a five-block area, but we can't do that without being seen.”

“You can't do anything until he frees Megan,” Susan argued. She was stone sober and very tense. She half wished she was hungover enough to blunt her awareness of what was happening. But Sam Craig hadn't let her drink enough for that. She had long since decided he was the devil in disguise.

“We could follow him,” Sam said. “If we could get a tail on him, we could bide our time until he contacts an accomplice or gets Megan himself. But in that location, the risk of his seeing us is pretty high.”

Savannah was trying to think of viable alternatives. “What about putting a homing device in with the money?”

“I'm not sure we can risk that either,” Sam replied. “The guy's smart. He's going to check the money pretty quick. Chances are he'll dump it out of the bag into a sack of his own. If he finds anything suspicious, he'd take it out on Megan.”

“How do we know he hasn't already?” Susan cried. “He wouldn't let Will talk with her.”

“He was probably calling from a pay phone. Even if Megan had been stashed nearby, he wouldn't have risked dragging her out in the open.”

Susan didn't like what Sam said or the factual way he said it. He was too sure of himself, while she was a nervous wreck. “But we don't have any proof she's still alive! How can Will hand over the money without knowing?”

“How can he not?” Sam returned.

Slowly and inevitably, the truth of his words sank in. Not even Savannah attempted to deny it.

Hands knotted at her waist, Susan picked at her nail polish. “I can't stand this. We're totally powerless. Some criminal is calling the shots, and we're doing just what he says.”

“For now,” Savannah said. “For now.”

“But it's disgusting. The Vandermeer name is
worth
something.”

“No,” Sam corrected. “The Vandermeer
money
is worth something. Our guy doesn't give a damn about the name.”

“Is there a difference? Name, money, power—it's all tied together. The Vandermeers have been a force in this state for a good, long time. They don't deserve this.”

Savannah put a hand on her arm. “Careful, Suse.”

“Of what?” Susan asked haughtily.

“Of me,” Sam said tightly. “You're talking nonsense. What makes you think the Vandermeers should be exempt from crime just because they have money or power? You think that the poor schnook who works his butt off in a factory sixty hours a week and still can't make ends meet—you think he deserves to be victimized any more than the Vandermeers? No one deserves it, but it happens.”

“The Vandermeers contribute more than their share in taxes
and
to charity.”

Sam laughed at that.

“There must be something that can be done!” she cried.

“Someone to call?” he taunted. “Someone to pull a string here or there? Someone to fix things so no one's inconvenienced and the whole thing just goes away? Sorry, sweetheart, but life doesn't always work that way.”

“It isn't fair,” Susan told him. When she saw no sympathy forthcoming, she turned on Savannah. “It isn't fair.”

“No.”

“Doesn't it infuriate you?”

“All the time.”

“Still, you do it. Day in, day out you play the game. It's like cops and robbers, with only one side following the rules. The robbers come and go as they please. They do whatever they want.” She made a choking sound. “And to think I envied you your job. If this is the kind of excitement you thrive on—”

“I don't thrive on it,” Savannah bit back. “I'm as worried as you are.”

“You don't look it.”

“It's my
job
not to look it.”

“She's worried,” Sam assured Susan. “She's got sunken eyes, just like you.” He was looking from one sister's face to the other's. “So there's a resemblance after all. Sunken eyes.”

“Those are shadows,” Savannah informed him dryly. “Tension shadows.”

Susan glared at him. “That was just what I needed. Thanks.”

Savannah gave her arm a squeeze, then turned to Hank, who, after nearly two days with Susan and Sam, had learned to stand out of the line of fire. “Will's taking care of things with the insurance company, I gather.”

Hank nodded. “In the kitchen.”

She looked back at Sam. “Do we let him go alone tonight?”

Sam shrugged. “We could scatter a few winos around to relay info, but the guy's apt to smell a rat. The construction site is usually deserted after five. We can post a few unmarked cars at random spots on the chance he'll pass them. It'd be nice to get a make on his vehicle and there won't be much traffic, but that can work against us, too. If our guy catches wind of a tail, Megan could be in trouble. So we'll have to be careful. Our first priority is to get her back in one piece. Once we've done that, her kidnappers are free game.”

Susan snorted. “It'll be too late then.”

“No. Megan may be able to help us.”

“Oh? If I were a kidnapper planning something as neatly as this one did, I'd make sure the victim didn't see or hear a thing.”

Savannah responded. “They'll make a mistake, Suse. Somewhere along the line, they'll make a mistake.”

“Vintage Savvy,” Susan said, rolling her eyes. “Optimistic to the end.”

But Savannah was shaking her head. “This is just the beginning. Once Meggie's back, we'll have manpower on our side. Local police, state police, FBI—they'll all be involved. I don't care how professional those kidnappers are, somewhere they'll slip up, and when they do, we'll be waiting.” She paused. “If only Will would let us call in help now.” Then she shivered, looked around at the somber, concrete walls, and muttered beneath her breath, “I've had enough of this basement.” Rubbing her upper arms with her hands, she headed for the stairs.