The Target (16 page)

“That isn't polite,” Ramsey said, and in a move that was subtle and smooth, he gently clasped the young man's hand and twisted his thumb back. The guy gasped with pain. He didn't move.

“Now, back off,” Ramsey said very quietly. “I'm not a reporter.” He applied a bit more pressure on the thumb. “All right?”

“Leave be, Alenon,” Louey Santera said.

The young guy nodded. There was cold hatred in his dark eyes. It seemed to be awfully easy to make enemies these days. Ramsey released his thumb. “Now, let's get out of here. Molly, say hello to your ex-husband.”

“Hi, Louey. How's tricks? Hey, I don't see your girlfriend. She doesn't have a passport?”

“How did you find Emma?”

She batted her eyelashes at him and put her hand on her hip. “I used my considerable sex appeal, naturally.”

Ramsey stared at her. Louey Santera barked out a vicious laugh. “Hey, that's a joke,” he said. “You're always
telling jokes, never serious. You didn't find Emma at all, did you? It's just all hype.”

“Why do you think that? I don't have enough brainpower? Not enough guts?”

“Come off it, Molly. You know you didn't have a thing to do with getting Emma back. You wouldn't know where to find square one if it hit you in the nose. What really happened?”

She leaned close. “Okay, Louey, the game's over.” She leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Listen, you selfish jerk, I found my daughter, all by myself. You want to know what happened? The man who took her sexually abused her and beat her. What do you think of that, Louey?”

“That can't be true. I didn't hear anything like that. No, you're lying, trying to make me look bad.”

“No one could make you look worse than you already look. You call from Europe and start bragging about your success there and all the women you're screwing. You're a toad, Louey, you don't give a damn about Emma.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because my father scares you all the way down to your crooked little toes. If he told you to be celibate for a week, I just bet you'd do it.”

“He's a murderer, Molly, shouts to the world that he's a big legitimate businessman, but he's nothing but a big-time crook, and you know it. You're no better. You took me for everything in the divorce, you're nothing but a—”

Ramsey broke in. “All right, enough of the emotional sentimental reunion. It's time to get out of here before more reporters show up.” He turned to the acne-faced young guy who was Louey Santera's bodyguard. “You get Mr. Santera's luggage. You can drop it off at Mason Lord's place in Oak Park. Then you can go to a motel or something. Don't think you're included on Mr. Lord's houseguest list.”

Louey looked over at the reporter who'd been so rude. He recognized him. His name was something like Marzilac. He was from the
Chicago Sun-Times.
Hell. He was just
standing there, speaking low to his photographer. What were they talking about? Maybe they were talking about whether to print any of this. Just his luck. Now he had to face Mason Lord. His kidney hurt just thinking about it.

“Let's go,” Ramsey said.

“Do as he says, Alenon,” Louey said. “Just call the house and tell me where you're staying.”

A
N HOUR AND
a half later, Louey Santera faced his ex–father-in-law across the huge mahogany desk in Mason Lord's study.

“This cretin—” He motioned toward Ramsey, who was standing by the door. “He accosted me. He nearly broke my bodyguard's thumb. In fact, I'll just bet you he got a reporter to come there and ask me stupid questions. It cost me a bundle to leave Germany. I was busy, everything was going great with the crowds. Besides, there's nothing I can do for you. I've thought about it, and I don't know of anyone who could have done this.”

Mason Lord didn't rise. He sat there, tall and straight in his chair, weaving his black Mont Blanc pen, heavy with gold trim, expertly between his long fingers. He let Louey talk and talk. Finally, when he'd heard more than enough, he said, smoothly, “You're looking thin, Louey. Your eyes look too bright, the pupils too large. I hope you're well.”

“Touring is hard work, real long hours. Sometimes I have to take sleeping pills to calm me down. Listen, I didn't want to come here. What can you possibly want from me?”

“I do hope you're not doing cocaine again. I really hate
drugs, you know that. I told you that when you were married to Molly. If the coke doesn't kill you, then it's usually something else. Like the guys selling it to you getting pissed off. I've never seen simple sleeping pills dilate your pupils.”

“I'm not doing drugs.”

“Did you meet Ramsey Hunt?” Mason Lord waved a hand toward Ramsey, who was still standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest.

“I told you, he was the bastard who—”

“It's Judge Ramsey Hunt. Perhaps you've heard of him?”

“No. Who is he? Some gigolo your young wife wanted?”

“Ah, Louey, you do like to push the envelope, don't you? I suggest you think a bit before you open your mouth. If you ever mention my wife again, I'll have Gunther cut off the end of your tongue. Your singing wouldn't benefit from that. Now, since you appear to be ignorant as well as unwise, I'll tell you that Ramsey Hunt is the San Francisco Federal District Court judge whose picture was on the covers of both
Newsweek
and
Time
magazines a while back. He's a real hero, they say. Don't you remember? The big drug murder case in San Francisco? What Judge Hunt did all by himself when they tried to break the defendants out of the courtroom?” Louey looked blank. Mason Lord sighed. “Ah, Louey, I do pray that Emma didn't inherit your brains, your inability to recognize the importance of anything that doesn't pertain directly to you. It would be a pity.”

Ramsey said, “Ignorance isn't the same as stupidity.”

“In Louey's case, it seems to be.”

“She's got his talent, Dad,” Molly said, coming into the room to stand beside Ramsey. “In fact, she's got all the talent that he could ever claim. And his talent is good even if his brain isn't.”

“Impossible,” Louey Santera said, whirling around to
see Molly standing beside that damned judge. The guy was too young to be a judge. She'd come in very quietly. How long had she been standing there? “Emma? She's a little kid, only what, five years old?”

“Six, Louey. Your daughter is six years old.”

“Yeah, well, what talent?”

“She can play the piano for you. She's incredible.”

“Enough!”

Everyone looked at Mason Lord. He relaxed slowly, saying nothing more, knowing that he had all their attention again.

Louey said, “Why did you want me to come back? You got Emma. What else is there?”

“It appears there's a conspiracy afoot. Not just one kidnapper, Louey. Judge Hunt believes there are a goodly number of men involved since it appears to be a very professional operation, and they're all after Emma. Indeed, the men tracked Molly and Ramsey all across Colorado into California. Do you know anything about this, Louey?”

“That's ridiculous! What would I know about that? Emma's my daughter, for God's sake. I don't know anything about any conspiracy.”

“Well, there's a problem,” Mason Lord continued, his voice suddenly soft, oily with sincerity. It reminded him of Bill Matthias's voice, a lawyer in San Francisco unoriginally called Slick Willie. “I'm not behind any conspiracy, Louey, and there, quite simply, isn't anybody else. There's another little point that's really very disturbing. The man who had Emma. He abused her sexually and beat her.”

Louey lunged to his feet, his face white. “No! That's impossible. Molly said that, but I didn't believe her. There must be a mistake . . . not Emma, no one would dare touch Emma like that.”

Mason Lord sat slightly forward. “Didn't you bother to make sure that the man you hired to hold Emma in that cabin in the Rockies wasn't a child molester?”

Louey collapsed back into the chair. “Listen, I didn't
hire anybody! I don't know anything about any of it. Dammit, she's my daughter. I wouldn't have my own daughter kidnapped.”

“Oh?” It was Molly's voice coming from behind him, cold and hard. “You'd do anything for money, Louey. Anything. I'll just bet you owe some big shot lots of money and you left the country because you couldn't pay. Is that it?”

He turned on her, so furious the pulse pounded wildly in his thin neck. “You have the gall to talk high and mighty about money. You took me for every dime I had. You didn't deserve anything at all. All you managed to do was get pregnant. Dammit, I didn't have Emma kidnapped!”

Mason Lord slowly rose. He pressed his palms against the desktop. He said in that same soft, oily voice, “I think Molly's right. You're in big debt to somebody and this was your way of paying them off. Tell us the names of the men, Louey. Tell us who helped you pull this off. Tell us why they're still after Emma.”

“I don't know about any men! I don't know anything! Molly's dead wrong.”

“Gunther, please come here.”

Gunther, huge and menacing, his big hands relaxed at his sides, said, “Yes, Mr. Lord?”

“Gunther, please take Mr. Santera to one of our guest rooms. He's weary from his long journey. He flew in from Germany today, you know. Yes, he's tired and needs to rest. Take him upstairs and put him to bed. Stay with him, Gunther. Remind him that life is sometimes very difficult. Remind him that I forgave him once, but patience is a precious commodity. Remind him that I'm not always such a patient man. Oh yes, he doesn't need to speak to that creature who is supposedly his bodyguard. Keep Mr. Santera quiet and apart. He needs to rest.”

“I didn't have Emma kidnapped!”

“I'll see you after you've had a nice rest, Louey,” Mason Lord said. He rose and watched as Gunther wrapped one
huge hand around Louey Santera's upper arm and pulled him toward the study doors.

Louey jerked around at the door. “If it's Molly who's claiming I did that, she's crazy. She hates me. Maybe this judge character is her lover and they wanted the money. Yeah, maybe Molly did it.”

Gunther quietly closed the study doors, and there was silence.

Ramsey whistled. He said, “I sometimes forget the awesome power people like you wield. Every day I deal with people claiming that they're as innocent as their dear grannies, but you know they're lying through their teeth, you know that most of them are thugs, cons, just plain scum, and many times much worse.

“And the thing is, of course, that in our justice system you can't just beat the crap out of them even though you know they're so guilty they're bulging with it. No, we play by rules that seem absurd in their gentleness, in their lack of focus and force. We use compromise and negotiation, not metaphorical thumb screws.” Ramsey shrugged. “On the other hand, your performance hasn't yet resulted in anything, except to terrify one skinny little man. Molly would probably disagree with me on how often we get to it, but the truth is always there, somewhere. Don't beat the crap out of him yet, sir. Your threats are just as potent. I'd like a chance to talk to him myself. From what I could see, Molly should probably keep her distance. She's quite good with that pistol of hers.”

Mason Lord said easily, “Of course I know my threats are potent, Ramsey. They wouldn't be potent, however, if occasionally I didn't back them up, and the knowledge of that got around. Talk to Louey, see what you can dig out of the little bastard.”

Ramsey nodded, then said to Molly, “I'm thirsty. Would you like to drink a glass of lemonade with me and Emma?”

“Yes. Then I've got phone calls to make.”

* * *

D
R
. Eleanor Loo, a tall Chinese-American woman in her mid-thirties, was wearing a leg cast. She rose clumsily when they came into her office. Molly had gotten her name from Emma's new pediatrician. Her fingers were crossed when, after introductions were made, Dr. Loo turned to Emma. She just smiled at her, then said, “Let me sit down, Emma. My leg makes me a bit awkward and the cast is heavy. At least it doesn't hurt much anymore. I broke it skiing. It was a beautiful fall, right off a twelve-foot cliff. Everyone said I looked so graceful sailing off that cliff. I don't suppose you ski?”

“My mama does. I'm learning.” Emma didn't move, just stood there between Ramsey and Molly.

“You've had three lessons, kiddo,” Molly said. “You're going to be very good. Maybe you'll be lucky and not go sailing off a cliff, but it happens. Remember when I strained the ligaments in my right knee?”

“Yes, Mama. You had to have physical therapy.”

“Me too,” said Dr. Loo. “I'll ski again, but not for another year. I miss it. Now, Emma, why don't you come over here and sit by me?”

Emma didn't move. She tightened her hold on Ramsey's hand.

Ramsey said easily, “Tell you what, Dr. Loo, why don't I just let Emma sit on my lap for a while. Is that all right?”

“Sure thing. I understand that you're a very smart girl, Emma. Your mama told me that you escaped from this bad man all by yourself, that you thought it all through and figured out what to do.”

Emma was frozen. Ramsey couldn't even hear her breathe. But he forced himself to keep quiet, to wait. He supposed he'd expected the shrink to go easier, to ease into Emma's experience, not just dive in, face first.

Dr. Loo said, “How did you figure out how to escape?”

Emma licked her lips. It was the first movement she'd made. Ramsey wanted so much to pull her against him and
cover her with his arms, protect her, but he knew there was no protection when the wound was raw and deep, all on the inside. He looked at Molly. Her face was white and set. She was trying to look relaxed, but she wasn't succeeding. Her hands were fists on the chair arms.

Emma said in a small reflective voice, “I thought and thought.”

Ramsey felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. Emma's voice was a whisper of sound. He was surprised any of them even heard her words.

Dr. Loo waited for more, but Emma didn't say any more. Dr. Loo said then, “You thought well. How long did you think about it?”

“All that day. But I didn't know how I could get the string off my hands, and then he forgot. He just forgot and went outside to smoke.”

“Then what did you do?”

Emma was pressed so tightly against his chest that Ramsey wondered if he shouldn't intervene. He was on the point of opening his mouth when Emma said in that same whispery soft little voice, “I jumped off the bed. It was real dirty. He wasn't wearing his glasses. When he came back he thought the pillow was me. I crawled out the front door.”

“You were barefoot?”

Emma thought. “No, I knew I had to run, so I put on my sneakers. I put them on after I was outside.”

“Did he drink very much?”

“I counted four empty bottles. I didn't have anything to do, so I counted them. They were really big.”

“How long did it take him to drink those four bottles?”

“Five days.”

“That's how many days it was until you escaped?”

“Yes,” Emma said, her voice not quite so choked now.

“Were there certain times of the day or night that he drank out of those bottles?”

It was loud, that mewling sound that ripped Ramsey's guts. She was trembling, wheezing for breath, making those
awful sounds. “No, no, sweetheart,” Ramsey said, pressing his cheek to hers, holding her tightly, rocking her, keeping her close and closer still. “It's all right. You're safe now, with me and your mama. If Dr. Loo had been there I bet she would have kicked that miserable man in his butt.”

“That's right, Em. She would have kicked him with her cast. That would really hurt.”

The mewling sounds stopped.

“Emma?” It was Dr. Loo. Emma didn't say anything, just pressed closer to Ramsey's chest. “I would have kicked him really hard. Count on it.”

Emma jerked. Then, slowly, she raised her head. She looked at her mother, at Ramsey, then at Dr. Loo. “Mama wanted to shoot him,” she said at last. “She might have shot Ramsey if I hadn't said something.”