Switchback (6 page)

When she returned to the kitchen, Mac was just stepping through the hall doorway. She guessed that he had been checking the remainder of the first floor. It had been a long while since either of them had spoken. Afraid that the silence might strike an eavesdropper as odd, she said, “It's amazing how much better I feel knowing you're staying over for the night.” No sooner had the words passed her lips than Mallory realized she sincerely meant them. Having Mac there
was
a comfort. “With Keith in the hospital and my folks gone on vacation, I would have been alone.”

“Maybe you can be there for me sometime,” he replied. “That's what friends are for, right?”

He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling to let her know he was going upstairs. She followed him up, searching the rooms off one hall while he checked the ones off the other.

Nothing.
As Mallory slipped silently from Keith's bedroom into his upstairs study, a deluge of memories swept through her mind, pictures of Keith and Emily together, laughing, playing, filling the rooms with sounds of happiness.

Now, with nothing but silence around her, Mallory could appreciate how truly blessed she had been. Had the refrigerator always hummed so loudly? She could hear it, even from up here. Had the floors always creaked like this when someone was walking? The horrible sense of emptiness inside the house made her feeling of loss all the more acute. She might never again see Keith sweep his granddaughter into his arms, never hear Em's carefree giggles or see her eyes light up with excitement at the sound of her grandfather's voice when he came in at night. The list of losses seemed endless.

When they had finished searching the second floor, Mac met her on the landing. Together, they returned to the kitchen. Grabbing a notepad and pen off the bar, he wrote, “Nothing that I could find. As far as I could tell, the house hasn't been searched, either.”

Mallory lifted her hands to let him know that she hadn't found anything, either. Then she took the pen from him and wrote, “Maybe they wanted my keys for something else? To open something, perhaps?”

He scanned her response, his frown deepening. Shrugging one shoulder, he motioned for her to sit at the table. He seemed more relaxed as he opened the refrigerator. She sat down and watched him, too heartsick to care what he was doing or why. She even forgot to worry about his gun, despite her fears. Em's voice rang in her ears.
Mommy, will you cut my toast into hearts? With jam on top?

Mac's voice sliced through Mallory's memories like a knife through tinfoil. “How do eggs sound? Eggs and toast.”

“I'm not hungry.” She closed her eyes and tried to sort the voices in her head, Em's, Mac's, her own. “A drink, maybe.”

“Just because you don't feel hungry doesn't mean you shouldn't eat. My cooking may not be up to your usual standards, but it'll fill your hollow spots.” He located a skillet and placed it on the stove. Flashing her an encouraging smile, he began taking food from the refrigerator. “You'll be surprised how much better you feel once you've eaten. Take it from me. When things like this happen, you make it through one minute at a time. When you can't do anything else, you fuel up for the next round and rest.”

“I—I really don't feel like eating.”

“I want you to try, sweetheart.”

Mallory gazed at his broad back, at the crisscrossed leather strap of his shoulder holster. The endearment unnerved her for a moment. Then she decided he must still think it was necessary to keep up the pretense that they were lovers. She watched him move around her kitchen with practiced ease. Clearly he was a man with many talents, as adept at acting and cooking as he was at picking locks and tending scraped legs. He located the silverware drawer and pulled out a fork to whip the eggs he had cracked into a bowl. Seconds later, she heard a loud sizzling sound, followed by the methodical scraping of the spatula against the cast-iron pan.

The cooking smells reached her and turned her stomach. She fastened her gaze on the tabletop. In the reflecting light, she could see smudges on the polished surface.
Fingerprints.
Tiny ones. Everywhere she looked, she saw something to remind her of Emily. She could hear Mac taking plates down, sticking bread in the toaster. Everyday sounds. She wanted to scream at him to stop. She couldn't eat. Couldn't even think about eating. Was Em hungry? Had someone fed
her
yet? It was past her bedtime, and Mallory didn't know if she even had a blanket.

A ringing sound pealed through the room. Mallory stared at the telephone on the bar, her body frozen. Mac jerked the skillet off the burner. “Answer it,” he urged.

She pushed up from the chair and took a halting step. The phone clamored again, the sound running along her nerve endings, making her skin quiver. “Do you think it's him?”

“I don't know. Just answer it.” Mac strode across the floor and seized her elbow to pull her forward. “Just play it by ear.”

By the third ring, Mallory was standing directly in front of the phone. For some reason, it seemed to have taken her much longer than usual to cross the room. She stood there and stared, willing herself to move, so filled with dread of what she might learn that she couldn't. Mac flipped the panel control on to intercom. She lifted her arm, forcing her fingers to curl around the receiver and lift it. Trembling uncontrollably, she pressed it to her ear. “H-hello?”

There was a long silence. Then a voice crackled over the speaker and filled the room. “Mrs. Christiani? I have your daughter. If you want to see her alive again, listen very carefully.”

Mallory clutched the phone with both hands, like a lifeline. It was her only link to her daughter. “Where's my little girl? Who
are
you? What have you done to her? She's just a baby!” Her voice broke. “Please, don't hurt her, please—”

“Get a grip on yourself, Mrs. Christiani,” the man snarled. “I have no time for hysterics. Whether or not I harm your daughter is entirely up to you.”

Mallory held her breath until her temples throbbed. She could hear Mac whispering, “Stay calm—stay calm.” The words eventually sank in and she exhaled in a rush. “What do you want? Money? How much? Just name a price. I'll get it for you. Anything. I'll do anything.”

“Not money, just a package.”

“A package?” Incredulity swept through Mallory. She hadn't expected him to say that. “What kind of package?”

“The day your father-in-law collapsed, he was supposed to have mailed it to me. Unfortunately for you, the package I received was a fake, filled with nothing but blank sheets of paper. I have reason to believe he put the documents I had requested in his safety-deposit box, hoping to retrieve them later.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Shortly before he collapsed, he was seen entering the vault at the bank with a package under his arm. He reappeared without it. I have tried, without success, to find his deposit box key. That leaves me with no options. I want that package, Mrs. Christiani. I need you to get it for me.”

Someone had stolen her baby to get a package? Hysteria swelled in her throat. “A package? Why did my father-in-law even have it? What connection does he have to you?”

To Mallory's dismay, the man ignored the questions. “It's a large manila envelope. At the upper left corner, you'll probably see the name Steven Miles, Accountant, with the return address stamped in red ink. Inside you will find several sets of ledgers with the same accountant's name in the headings. You don't need to know anything more. Find that key and get the package, Mrs. Christiani. When you return it to me, you get your child.”

“B-but I don't know anything about a key.”

“You'll find it, Mrs. Christiani. You have access to your father-in-law's files, his belongings. You know what his habits are and where he might have hidden something important. Oh, yes, you'll find it. If you don't, your little girl will die.”

For an instant, all Mallory could see was Darren's face after his accident, the blood in his hair, his empty eyes staring up at her. She heard Mac curse beneath his breath, felt him tighten his hold on her. “Y-yes, I'll find it... I'll find it. Let me talk to Emily. I want to talk to my daughter.”

“You'll talk to her when I have the package, not before.”

“But how will I know she's all right? That you haven't—”

“I guess you won't,” he replied coldly. “Now put your friend on the line.”

Mallory glanced up at Mac and handed him the phone. For a horrible moment, it occurred to her that he might be in on this, that he had duped her from the start. She gazed up at his chiseled features, at the grim set of his mouth. His eyes locked with hers, as if he had guessed what she was thinking.

Averting his face, he said, “Hello?”

“Let's cut right to the heart of the matter, shall we, Mr. Mac Phearson? I ran a make on your car. I know you're a private investigator. Take this as fair warning. Don't mess with me. I don't care if you hold your little friend's hand, I don't care if you help her find the package for me, but don't interfere. If you call the local police or the Feds in on this—or even
look
like you're going to—your girlfriend's child is dead. Have I made myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear.” Mac's eyes darkened to a cloudy, turbulent gray. “Is the child okay?”

“Yes, and she'll stay that way as long as you cooperate.”

“You're going to have to do a little cooperating yourself.”

“You're in no position to make demands.”

“I think that depends on how you look at it.”

A long silence crackled over the speaker. “What are you asking?”

“Two things. Number one, call off your thugs. We can't find the key, package, or anything else while we're dodging bullets.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Then
find out
what I'm talking about. Three men tried to kill us this afternoon.”

“A man in your profession is bound to make enemies, Mr. Mac Phearson.” A horn honked in the background. Thus far, that was the only external sound Mallory had detected. “I can't be held accountable for that. Whoever those men were, they have no connection to me.”

Mac's eyebrows drew together in a scowl. “I want the kid put on the phone.”

“That's impossible.”

“No, that's just good business. No kid, no package.”

Mallory held herself absolutely rigid. She knew Mac had to take a firm stand. They'd discussed the fact that it would ensure Em's safety, but that didn't make it any less frightening. Mac glanced over at her, his face unnaturally pale, the only sign that he, too, was afraid. “So do we speak to the child or not?”

“Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock.”

The phone clicked and went dead. Horror flooded through Mallory, and she grabbed the receiver from Mac's hand. “No—oh, please—don't hang up!”

Silence hummed over the intercom. Mac felt Mallory's body go limp. As she slumped against him, only her hand on the phone seemed to retain some life. He had to pry her fingers loose to return the receiver to its cradle. He had done his best. And it hadn't been good enough. It was going to be a long, miserable night for her, an eternity—wondering if her daughter was alive.

Chapter Five

Mac didn't like the expression on Mallory's face after he pried the phone from her hand. Her eyes had a blank, dazed look. Her skin was chalk white. She stared at the phone, her head tipped to one side as if she was listening for something. “Mallory?” he whispered.

For several seconds she didn't seem to hear him. Then she lifted her liquid brown eyes to meet his gaze. He could tell that she wasn't really seeing him. He stepped behind her and grasped her shoulders to steer her back to the table. Like a lifeless doll, she sat when he told her to sit. Hunkering at her feet, he gazed up at her and tried to reconcile this woman with the one who had been so resilient all day, surprising him at every turn. She still hadn't really cried. A few stray tears, but she hadn't broken down. He had a feeling that was coming, though—probably soon.

How could he have been so wrong about her all these years? Mallory Steele, wife of the promising young attorney, Darren Christiani, the daughter of a wealthy congressman, a woman who had it all. Self-centered, shallow, as cold as ice. That was how he had pegged her. As useless as a paper dress in a downpour. A pretty little darling with charm-school manners who went every week for a fifty-dollar manicure, who drove a brand-new Mercedes sports car around town with the top down, her salon-conditioned hair flying in the wind.

The Mallory he was getting to know held no resemblance to that imagined girl-woman. Hadn't all day. And now? An ice maiden didn't love this deeply. Her hair hung in a tangled mass of whiskey-colored curls that reached her shoulders. Her clothes were wrinkled and soiled. Her stockings were torn. Her legs were scratched. She looked like an abandoned child, eyes bruised, mouth quivering, hands limp in her lap. Not even Mac could dredge up resentment toward her.

He cupped the side of her face, brushing his thumb along the fragile contour of her jaw. The blue smudge along her cheekbone was turning a darker color. Her gaze shifted but didn't focus. It was as if she had slipped into another dimension, a nightmarish place that wouldn't release its hold on her. “Mallory, come on, sweetheart.”

Awareness at last flickered in her eyes. He could almost see her picking up the threads of her self-control. He had never been good with crying women, but this was one time he would have welcomed tears.

With a sigh, she said, “Well, now we know why he stole my keys, to see if the safety-deposit-box key was on my ring.”

He sat back on his heels, still concerned about her pallor. “Which means I was probably wrong about the bugs. At least we don't need to be so worried about what we say now.” Weariness weighed heavily on his shoulders, ached behind his eyes. “I want you to listen up, okay? Look at me and listen. Emily is Lucetti's ace in the hole. He won't hurt her. Not if he wants that package.”

“What if he already has? He wouldn't put her on the phone. If she's all right, why wouldn't he let me speak to her?”

“Scare tactics. She's leverage, Mallory. He's deliberately trying to make you come unglued so he can be sure you'll do as you're told. I know it's hard, but try to think positive. Without Emily, he can't bargain for the package. He'll handle her with kid gloves, believe me.”

She passed a tremulous hand across her brow. “Do you really think so?”

Mac nodded with far more certainty than he felt. “He said we could speak to her in the morning. Now, would he have promised that if he couldn't deliver?”

“No, I guess he wouldn't. A package? He took my little girl! Why would anyone want a set of ledgers that much?”

“I don't know. Maybe the information in them is incriminating. Mallory, I don't know. I wish I—”

“Then why would Keith have them?” Her voice was shrill, quavery. “Keith doesn't handle criminal cases.”

“I assume that Steven Miles, the accountant, gave them to him.” Mac frowned. “That name rings a bell. I wonder why.”

While he was lost in thought, she pushed up from her chair and went to open the top drawer in the cabinet under the breakfast bar. He watched her rummage through it, her slender fingers sifting the smaller items, her gaze intent.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for that key.” She glanced over at him, her lips set with determination. “Keith might have kept it here in the house. It's certainly a possibility, anyway.”

A very slim one, Mac thought, but he hated to say so. Searching for the key would give her something to do tonight, give her hope. Personally Mac thought Keith would have been more likely to keep the key someplace where it would have been more readily accessible to him during the day while he was at work. Lucetti's people had seen Keith going into the bank vault with a package shortly before he collapsed. Could he have returned home after leaving the bank and left the key here? Or was it at his office? In his car, perhaps? Surely he wouldn't have been so careless as to hide it in a junk drawer at home.

Mallory had worked her way down to the third drawer. There was a feverish look on her face, a desperation in her eyes. Mac finally joined her and began searching the cupboards. “You know, to search everywhere in a house this size could take days. We should at least go about it systematically.”

She nodded. “Like Lucetti said, I know Keith's habits, how he thinks. Tonight, we'll look in the most obvious places first.”

“But, Mallory, it stands to reason he probably would have
hidden
it if he didn't want Lucetti getting his hands on it. Someplace no one would ever think of looking.”

“Not Keith. He deals in human nature, remember. He has always maintained that people usually fail to see things that are right in front of their noses. If he really wanted to hide a key, he'd probably put it someplace so obvious that Lucetti would look everywhere else first.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Think of all the places no one in his right mind would hide an important key.
That's
where we'll find it.”

Mac rocked back on his heels, his gaze coming to rest on a ginger jar on top of the refrigerator. It was a short drive to the house from Keith's office. He
might
have brought the key home and hidden it here. And a ginger jar was pretty darned obvious. After all, Mallory did know Keith better than anyone. Beginning to feel hopeful, Mac stood and went to check the jar. Next, he looked on the key rack by the back door. None of the keys there were for a deposit box.

While Mac wandered from room to room, Mallory finished searching the kitchen and moved on to the dining room. Even though she was busy looking for the key, her mind was filled with pictures of Emily. There was an ache inside her chest the size of a melon.
Hold on, darling
, she thought.
I'll come through for you. If it's the last thing I do, I'll come through for you.

With each passing minute, Mallory searched a little more frantically. Room by room, she eliminated every hiding place she thought Keith might have chosen.
Nothing.
She headed upstairs, praying Keith's rooms would turn up something.

After searching fruitlessly for four hours, Mallory and Mac returned to the kitchen. Mac shook his head, his eyes filled with discouragement. Mallory sank onto a chair, fighting off a wave of disappointment so acute that she could scarcely bear it. Without that key, she couldn't get her daughter back. She had to find it. And she had to find it soon.

Mac hunkered beside her, gazing up into her pale face. He wished he could think of something to say, something that would make her feel better, but there was nothing. Taking her hand, he asked, “Hey, you all right? Would you like something? I could get in touch with your doctor. He could prescribe something to help you sleep. We wouldn't have to tell him why—just that you're upset.”

Mallory shivered. “How could I sleep? No. If I took pills, I couldn't wake up. Something could happen and she might need me and I wouldn't be able to—”

“Okay, okay,” he interjected. “No pills. Just a thought.” He gave her cold fingers a squeeze. “How about something to eat now? You're running on sheer willpower.”

He returned to the stove to finish making the meal he had begun earlier. He didn't like this, not a bit. He had dealt with distraught parents before, managed to keep them glued together when things got tough, but he'd never been with the parent of a small child right after a disappearance, never seen that horrible fear in a mother's eyes or heard the desperation in her voice. Television didn't come close to depicting the agony of it. Watching Mallory, touching her skin and feeling her clammy fear, made him feel physically sick.

What kind of a man did something like this? That question frightened Mac more than anything. Lucetti would clearly stop at nothing to get what he wanted. The day's events kaleidoscoped in Mac's head, bits and pieces that jostled for position, none making sense. Those three men who had chased them today had been professionals. To believe, even for an instant, that they were connected to him and had nothing to do with Lucetti stretched credibility to the maximum. Mac had been in his line of work too many years without having any complications. Why would he suddenly be on someone's hit list? Mac had a few enemies, but they weren't after blood.

And that wasn't the only thing. The voice on the phone hadn't rung true, either. Born and raised in a poor section of Seattle, Mac knew a two-bit hood when he heard one. Lucetti might have climbed the ladder to the top, he might be rolling in dough by now, but unless he had attended college somewhere along the way and changed his circle of friends, he would still slip into old speech patterns, especially when tense. Mac knew he did himself, probably more than he realized, though he tried not to.

The man on the phone hadn't.

Granted, Mac had never seen Lucetti. But the man was a known racketeer, and Seattle lowlifes weren't renowned for being articulate. Which meant—what?

It meant trouble, that's what. And he didn't know for sure what kind. Stabbing the knife into the butter, he turned from the stove and slanted a concerned glance at Mallory. From the looks of her, he had trouble enough already. She was just sitting there again, staring at nothing. Shock, maybe? He hoped not. Striding to the table, he slid a plate in front of her and cleared his throat to get her attention. She didn't even look up. He poured them both some milk, then slid her plate closer.

“Come on, eat up,” he said gruffly. “You won't be any good to Emily sick. And sick's what you'll be if you don't eat.”

She turned on the chair and picked up her fork. Giving the steaming scrambled eggs a tentative poke, she whispered, “I have to find that key.”

“Yeah, but first you have to eat.” He straddled a chair and scooted forward, propping an elbow by his plate. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he took a bite of toast, tucked it aside in his cheek and said, “Come on, just a few bites. Then you can go upstairs and maybe grab a shower, get some sleep. We can't do anything more tonight.”

She stiffened, her fork hovering midway to her mouth, a clump of eggs perched precariously on the tines. “Sleep? I can't sleep. I have to keep looking. Can't you understand that?”

Mac swallowed the lump of toast and grabbed his milk to wash it down. “Name me a place we haven't already looked.”

“There are hundreds.”

“But is it likely Keith would hide a key there? No. The best thing to do now is get a little rest. After we speak to Emily in the morning, we'll be free to leave the house. We can search the office and Keith's car. If we come up empty-handed,
then
we'll tear this place apart again. That's a promise.”

“If you think searching here for the key is useless, then shouldn't we be trying to find Lucetti?”

“Pete Lucetti isn't an easy man to find, Mallory. I've told you that. You have to understand the sort of person we're dealing with. He's the man behind the scenes, faceless, impossible to nail, a fanatic about never leaving evidence. If the cops can't find him, how do you think you can?”

“Won't you help? You're good at finding people, aren't you?”

Her voice held a pitiful note of hope.

“Drink your milk.”

She lifted the glass to her lips. When he glanced at her, he found that she was watching him over its rim with the most vulnerable brown eyes he had ever seen. Shoving the remainder of his toast into his mouth, he concentrated on chewing and tried not to look at her.

When the toast was finished, he said, “The smart thing for us to do is to wait for that phone call. Eight in the morning isn't so long to wait.”
Just an eternity of not knowing.
“After that, we'll have a better idea what we're up against. Right? You don't know. We might find that key and have Emily home by noon.”

“Do you really think so?”

Mac hated liars, but he managed to put some assurance into his voice to help her through the night. “Absolutely.”

She studied him until he wanted to squirm. “I think you're just saying that to make me feel better.” That empty, dazed look had crept into her eyes again. “What are the odds? On the level.”

“Mallory—”

“I want to know the truth. The odds of getting her back alive aren't good, are they?” After watching him a moment, she set her glass down with a thunk. “That's what I thought.”

An uncomfortable silence rose between them. Mac saw a glint creep into her eyes. Rage. He couldn't blame her. But, even so, he felt uncomfortable, as though he might take the brunt of her anger if he said the wrong thing.

After an endless moment, she cried, “I can't accept that. Pete Lucetti may be slick, but he can't be that slick. I'm going to find him, just you watch. He's going to be sorry he ever did this.”

A tremor ran the length of her. Mac tried to imagine how frustrated she must be feeling and realized no one could truly understand without having first lived through it. She looked completely drained.