Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (43 page)

M
RS
. V
ANDENBERG WAS ACTING STRANGE.

     Not that Francesca had hit it off with her in the first place, Stephen's mother being an unreachable woman. Even so, as she stood before the tall mirror while the seamstresses made a last minute adjustment on her train, Francesca could swear her future mother-inlaw, who was overseeing the whole delicate operation, was unusually agitated.

     "Turn around, dear," Mrs. Vandenberg said, as she cast a critical eye over the twenty-thousand-dollar wedding dress. "White really isn't your best color, is it?"

     Such a thing to say to a bride! Francesca curbed her irritation. Stephen was familiar with his mother's personality and had promised that he would not allow her to interfere once they were married.

     But mothers-in-law had a way of swaying their sons...

     They were interrupted by a knock at the door. A maid entered with a special delivery package, addressed to her father, marked Urgent. Francesca looked at the return address. Miami, Florida—from a doctor. She set the
package aside and carefully slipped out of her wedding dress. After Mrs. Vandenberg and the seamstress had gone, Francesca went back to the package and frowned at it.

     Her father had been called away on business. Uncle Uri had gone with him and they wouldn't return until evening. Just how urgently did this require attention? Thinking it was something she could take care of—Francesca frequently handled legal matters for her father—she opened it.

     The package contained two items: a death certificate for a woman named Lucy Fallon, and a sealed envelope with instructions written in a careful hand:
To Be Given To My Son Michael Fallon of Las Vegas, Nevada—upon my death.

     Francesca stared at it. Daddy's
mother?

     Thinking it had to be a mistake, she picked up the phone and dialed the number on the letterhead. A nurse answered. Francesca asked to speak to the doctor who had signed the death certificate and was told he was away for the weekend.

     "I'm calling in regard to Mrs. Fallon and the circumstances of her death."

     "Are you a relative?"

     "Michael Fallon is my father," Francesca said, hoping the nurse would say, "That name is unfamiliar to us. This is a different Mrs. Fallon."

     But the woman said, "We tried getting word to Mr. Fallon. Doctor was hoping he would come in time, as his mother was asking for him."

     Francesca hung up. Her father had a mother in a nursing home in Florida? All these years, a grandmother she didn't know about?
Why?

     And then other, darker questions crept into Francesca's mind. Rumors she had heard over the years, whispers of her father's supposed connection to Murder Inc many years ago. She had dismissed it as the usual Las Vegas mythology—like Elvis still being alive— but now she wondered...

     He hadn't said where he was going, hadn't given her a number in case of an emergency. She didn't even have Uncle Uri to turn to for answers, because Uri had accompanied her father.

     There was only one way to find out. Francesca called downstairs to have her car brought around, grabbed her purse, keys, and the sealed envelope, and drove out to McCarran Airport.

     Her sporty Cessna 172 was kept in the same hangar as her father's Lear jet. The mechanics knew her. They told her that her father and Mr. Edelstein had flown to a destination in the Mojave Desert called The Grove. She had heard of it. After a careful preflight check of her plane, Francesca took off into a due south heading, wondering why she was doing this, why she couldn't let it wait until her father returned in the evening.

     But she knew why. The wedding tomorrow. She didn't want to marry Stephen under a cloud of secrets.

     Stephen Vandenberg pulled up to the hangar, the tires of his Maserati squealing. He had been told Francesca was here and he had to see her right away. An emergency had come up. But she had taken off for a place called The Grove, the mechanics informed him, and Stephen had to make a split-second decision.

     This could not wait.

     Consulting a map, he determined that, at top speed, he could make it to The Grove in three hours. Not that he would beat Francesca there, but with luck, before she learned the bad news from her father. Stephen wanted to be the one to break it to her.

     Francesca was nearing her destination. A wind came up, suddenly and unexpectedly, buffeting the aircraft. She called the tower at Twentynine Palms Marine Base for a weather update and was told a storm was building to the east. They advised her to turn around.

     A little wind didn't daunt Francesca. She had flown through storms before. And The Grove was just up ahead. Thanking the tower, she signed off.

     But the air began to haze with dust and landmarks below were starting to become obscured. Then she looked to her left and saw something that made her blood run cold.

     A massive brown wall, growing and rolling from out of the desert. A sandstorm! And she was heading straight into it.

F
ALLON LIKED BEING ABOVE THE WORLD, SAILING THROUGH THE
sky like a god. From up here, in his private jet, he felt like a lord over the desert he so despised.

     He was in high spirits. Everything was falling into place, his lifelong dream of being a member of the most upper crust was going to come true in twenty-four hours. The childhood poverty, the stigma of being a bastard, the years of crime, doing the dirty work other men didn't want to soil their hands on, and even later as a respected businessman, having to put up with socialite women looking down their aristocratic noses at him—tomorrow, Michael Fallon was going to own the world.

     All it had taken was one simple letter to the Vandenbergs, informing them that he knew the secret about their precious son that they had guarded fiercely for many years, and he had hinted that any plans to block the wedding would result in nationwide publication of that secret.

     Which left Abby Tyler as the last stumbling block. He had tracked down and taken care of everyone who knew anything about his past. With Tyler
erased, his past would be erased. Starting brand-new, with a clean slate that Fallon was going to fill with wealth, position and power.

     He laughed out loud, he felt so good. Because whatever Abby Tyler thought she had on him, she wasn't going to have a chance to use it. Fallon was sure of that. He had a surprise for her.

     Stephen Vandenberg raced down the highway with an eye out for Highway Patrol. He had taken off for The Grove because he had received shocking news and he wanted Francesca to hear it from him first. But now he pressed the accelerator to greater speed for another reason—he had just heard a radio report about a massive sandstorm engulfing the Mojave Desert. And Francesca was flying a fragile aircraft.

     Praying she had time to turn around and outrun the storm, Stephen pressed the pedal to the floor and the Maserati shot down the highway.

     Jack arrived at Abby's bungalow with grim resolve. He didn't want to do this, but she was an escaped fugitive. And Jack had his duty.

     When Abby opened the door, looking worried and distracted, he saw her quickly slip something into the pocket of her slacks, but not before he saw what it was: an airline ticket. He had arrived just in time. Wanting to get this unpleasant task over with, he reached behind his back for the handcuffs that were tucked into his belt, but Abby said, "I'm glad you're here, Jack. Ophelia Kaplan isn't my daughter after all. A man is on his way, I believe he has information about my child."

     His hand paused. "A man?"

     "From Las Vegas. Michael Fallon, he owns the Atlantis hotel."

     Jack stared at her. Was she aware who Fallon was? A tough guy with legendary mobster connections. "Listen, Abby," he began, but was interrupted by her pager. The security escort at the landing strip reporting that her visitors had arrived.

     Fallon and Uri Edelstein disembarked the private jet, bending their heads into the Santa Anas that were blowing from the east, and were taken to a private bungalow where Tyler was waiting for them. Not bad looking, Fallon thought when he saw her, fit body tastefully dressed, rich but understated. In other circumstance, he would have gotten her into his bed. To his surprise, she had only two people with her, a black woman in an Arab
caftan and a stranger in a leather jacket. If the meeting had taken place at the Atlantis, Michael would have been surrounded by a staff of security men.

     Still, he wasn't going to underestimate her. Abby Tyler had managed to elude federal authorities for over thirty years. She wasn't stupid. And while this meeting might be taking place on her turf, Fallon was going to have the upper hand. Find out what she knew about him, and then make certain the information was secure. He expected to have this wrapped up within the hour and be on his way back to Vegas.

     Abby braced herself. She was glad Jack was there. She had been warned her that Fallon was dangerous, and when he came into the living room, he
exuded
danger. Handsome, of confident bearing, dressed in a stylish suit with diamonds and platinum adorning his fingers and wrists, Michael Fallon was the personification of a man in power. And a charmer, Abby decided. She knew men like him, and knew he was not to be trusted.

     There were no introductions. Before Abby could speak, Fallon took the lead and said, "What is this nonsense about me having information on the whereabouts of your child?"

     Abby handed him a sheaf of papers, photocopies of her private investigator's report. It was thick and stapled at the corner. Fallon glanced through them, thirty-thousand dollar watch glinting with each flip of his wrist.

     The atmosphere grew charged with tension as the moment stretched and Fallon read dates, names of birth mothers, descriptions of stolen infants, routes traveled, names and addresses of adoptive parents and amounts of cash handed over. Peppered throughout the prodigious report was the name Michael Fallon.

     Jack Burns watched Fallon with loathing. If only half of what he had heard about Fallon's criminal activities were true, the man should be executed. Jack particularly did not like the way Fallon had walked in here, acting as if he owned the place, smug and disrespectful to Abby.

     Vanessa looked on with trepidation. She, too, sensed Fallon's power. And he had come to this meeting slick and confident. Even now, as he read the mountain of evidence against him—that would put him away for life—he appeared to be unperturbed. How much did he know, she wondered, and who was the man with him?

     Fallon tossed the papers onto the coffee table. "The word of winos, crackpots and people who are conveniently dead," he said dismissively. "There isn't an iota of truth in there."

     "Mr. Fallon, where is my child?" Abby asked.

     He sized her up. Tyler had a stronger spine than he had expected. If he told her the baby from White Hills prison had been the fourth in the shipment, that it had died and was buried in the desert, would she drop this challenge, or would she escalate her fight? He decided to keep the information secret for now. "Suppose I know something," he said. "I'm not saying that I do, but if I have information, what will you give me in return?"

     "What do you mean?"

     "I'm a businessman. I'm not in the habit of giving away things for free."

     "You stole my child. You had no right. Tell me where he or she went."

     He didn't say anything. The wind roared outside, dry and electric, making the back of everyone's neck prickle.

     Jack spoke up. "Tell the lady what she wants to know."

     "It's all right, Detective," Abby said. "I can handle this."

     Fallon laughed. Detective! Was that supposed to intimidate him? He inspected his manicure. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

     Abby pointed to the sheaf of papers. "There is a record in there of a child taken on the night of May 17, from White Hills, Texas.
My
child. Where was he taken?"