Tourist Trapped (2 page)

“He dropped to one knee last night at his grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party, in front of about a hundred of his relatives. His grandmother, who’s about to keel over at any second, looked so happy. I just, I just couldn’t refuse—stop laughing. This isn’t funny.”

“If only the other men had known, all they had to do was to pop the question over the last, feeble breaths of their family matriarch.”

“I have to return the ring before word gets out—if it made the news, I might have to wait until after the February primary.”

“And if he won?”

“No—no he can’t. I couldn’t keep on with this—and I can’t figure out why in hell he proposed. We love each other and we have a great time together, but we’ve never talked about marriage—or anything about the future beyond, maybe six months out.”

“He probably figured even mentioning the ‘M’ word would send you running.”

“I see him tonight at a fund-raiser. I’ll talk to him afterward and hand over the ring.”

“Are you wearing it? How many carats?”

“It’s so big it’d make me walk lopsided,” Amanda said.

“Okay, so what’s the issue with your dad?”

“Rebecca and Trent went to Cancun and promptly disappeared. Dad wants me to fly down and help find them.”

“Disappeared? In Cancun?”

Jaz rapped on the door and flew in, tossing the
Chicago Sun-Times
on her desk with a big red circle around a picture of Matt and Amanda…and their engagement announcement.

“I’m going to kill him—wring his neck!” The edge of the paper crunched in Amanda’s hand. “That weasel published the announcement in today’s Sun-Times—he must have told the newspaper before he even proposed—that smug S-O-B knew I couldn’t refuse. Lauren, I have to go, I’ve a fiancé to maim.”

TWO

Monday December 7, Late Afternoon

Chad hung up
his coat in the closet, next to his son’s ski jacket and his daughter’s dress coat. He ran his hand down the sleeves of them, as he did every night.

He turned on the old stereo, hitting the “shuffle” button on his CD carousel. Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind” echoed through the living room and into the study where he sorted mail and checked his messages. He scanned his Internet accounts on his ancient laptop. Other than an email from his sister Kate, nothing of worth.

Again.

He gazed at Maggie’s doggie bed next to the desk, with its half-chewed tennis ball wedged in the corner.

Chad changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, tossed a frozen entrée into the microwave and uncapped a Heineken. His phone vibrated with a text. “In Wyoming. No details yet.”

* * *

Amanda stood next
to her “beau,” Matthew Baird, like a faithful, adoring Black Lab, although he was the one in the dog house. Her face ached from smiling, but her feet, jammed into a pair of skyscraper Jimmy Choos, protested the most. Her charming fiancé hadn’t returned any of the dozen voice messages she had left, each one more animated than the previous. But she stood next to him, graciously greeting everyone, playing the role of the happy fiancée. The boulder glistened on her finger like a shiny new collar.

“Matt, great to see you.” James Wagner, CEO of Eastport Bank, shook Matt’s hand and slapped his back. “Keep up the good work; we need you in Washington—and congratulations on the engagement.”

Amanda gritted her teeth behind the grin.

The upper crust mingled near the bar in another of their financially incestuous events, this one to support Matt’s bid for an Illinois senate seat. The expanse of tables in the Waldorf Astoria’s banquet room and the expensive flower arrangements disquieted Amanda. A far cry from Matt’s early events. It seemed Conservatives believed Matt could beat a Democrat this year, thanks to the influence of the Tea Party. A who’s who of CEOs greeted Matt, each of them eager to install into office someone who had their backs.

She smoothed her skirt, which paled in the room full of luscious designer clothes. The wives of the Windy City’s movers and shakers made an effort to dress the part. Luxurious fabrics—silks, velvets and satins—glided past her sensible-yet-expensive navy wool suit. “What recession?” would be the response to the wives glistening in gold and platinum. A waiter could be cut to the quick if he walked too close to the razor-sharp creases of the men’s Armani slacks.

“Why is everyone overdressed?” Amanda said through an aching smile.

Matt brushed his lips against her ear. “I tried to tell you. These fund-raisers have evolved from cocktail weenies and macaroni salad to canapés and brie. The business community recognizes me as their candidate.”

How long had it been since she stood beside him at one of his rallies? A few weeks before Thanksgiving? Had the crowds swelled so much in a month? Her mouth went dry.

Amanda and Matt had clicked the first time they had met, in May at a charity race for Wiggles and Wags Animal Shelter, another one of Amanda’s board-of-director gigs. Matt had been there, standing a foot taller than the crowd, pressing the flesh. The long-legged senate long-shot with a big heart and a small war chest. She had enjoyed watching him interact with his fellow citizens, listening to their gripes and explaining how he’d change Washington.

Amanda and Matt filled their time alone with frenzied fun. Her abdomen tightened as she recalled their trip to Vail over Thanksgiving, ripping down the slopes all day and romping in bed all night. Matthew Baird played with fire…and her.

But now, his campaign had the feel of what she most despised in politics: a marionette among the puppeteers. She needed to carefully and quietly separate from Matt and his campaign. Although furious with him, Amanda loved Matt too much to hurt his chances.

Why did he make it so much more complicated in the last twenty-four hours? Damn him. “You know, there’ll be more news about us tomorrow,” Amanda said.

“Yeah, hopefully we’ll make Tuesday’s front page.”

“Probably. Me strangling you with my bare hands should make the headlines,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls; it’s been a crazy day,” Matt whispered back. “What’s up?”

What’s up? The sonofa—what’s up?
“I wanted to express my delight with the preplanned engagement announcement.” She slid her hand around his inner upper arm and pinched. Hard. “We need to talk.”

“Ouch! Stop it. I can’t tonight; I need to meet with my campaign manager after dinner. Let’s discuss it tomorrow.”

“That’s what you told me last night.”

“Sorry, but it’s crazy right now.”

Darth Vader gasped in the confines of her purse.

“What the—” Matt glanced down at her bag.

If she ignored it, eventually Vader would shut up, but guests nearby began to look over.

“Excuse me.” She backed away from Matt and pulled out her phone as she weaved through the circular tables, each one sparkling with china and silverware, ready for the horde of guests who wanted to see her fiancé manipulate government to their liking.

“What do you want, Dad?”

“The kids are still missing and I can’t get down to Cancun because I can’t find my passport. Miriam is trying to make arrangements, but in the meantime we need somebody in Mexico.”

“Miriam can go down alone—or doesn’t Trent have family?”

“Mandy, please. I need your help. My baby’s missing.”

Her gut burned. “This isn’t the place or the time to talk. I’m at a fund-raiser for Matt.”

“Great—he’s got connections. Ask him to involve the authorities.”

“Are you nuts? The last thing Matt’s campaign needs is a girlfriend with a crazy family.” Her mind flooded with images of the fiasco splashed across the front page of the Chicago Tribune. There’d be enough talk over their ten-year age difference. Now the cougar’s family misplaced a daughter? “He can’t know anything about this—nobody can.”

A hand braced her shoulder and Matt’s cologne, a mix of ginger and sandalwood, circled her. “Is everything okay? You look a little unsettled.”

“Um, yes.” She disconnected the call and turned off her phone. “Nothing to worry about.”
Rebecca better get that skinny butt of hers back to Cancun. Fast.

They wandered back to the crowd, Matt smiling and shaking hands the entire way, but a number of the rich and powerful avoided Amanda: the ex-husbands of her clients. Bright, shiny new trophy wives on their arms, they politely waved at Matt but skirted Amanda. Sadly, she figured these women would be the next wave of clients in her office.

A movement on the fringe of the activity caught her attention. A pair of steely blue eyes stared back. Jonathan Wallace, Gordon Harding’s impeccably dressed henchman. Amanda had done her homework in prepping to help Celeste, and in most photos, Jonathan could be seen hovering somewhere in the vicinity of Gordo.

She tugged on the sleeve of Matt’s Dolce & Gabbana suit. “Why is Gordon Harding’s right-hand man here?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Jonathan Wallace, the doer of Gordon’s dirty work.”

“Well, Mr. Harding isn’t taking any of my calls, thanks to my lovely fiancée, so maybe he sent the guy to check out my prospects. Anybody willing to pay the one-thousand-dollar price tag can attend.”

“Matt, I noticed a number of your supporters aren’t exactly my biggest fans. Am I more of a liability than an asset? Maybe this engagement isn’t the best idea—especially with our age difference.”

He wrapped his arm around her neck and kissed her temple. “Nonsense. I want you beside me, all the way. But it might not be a bad idea if you lightened your caseload. I’ll need you with me campaigning from now until November. And then we’ll be heading to Washington.”

“Matt, it’s not what I—”

“Wonderful turnout Matthew. Mind if I borrow your lovely fiancée?” Peggy Armstrong shook his hand and then grabbed Amanda’s wrist, pulling her to a corner. “Although having a senator’s wife on the board would be absolutely marvelous, I have to ask, when did you lose your mind?”

Peggy sat on another board with Amanda, the Cook County Coalition for Abused Women. She and her husband Stephen had more money than God, the emissaries of Chicago’s elite.

“Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are—probably more so. Peg, I’m so glad you’re here. What’s going on? How did Matt suddenly become so popular with the Conservative contingent?”

“Stephen mentioned that somebody influential decided to back him and he brought along a number of moguls—which I find fascinating with you on Matthew’s arm. You’re the woman many of them love to hate, having heard tales about what it’s like to be ‘Sloane slain.’”

A low, chirping ringtone emanated from Amanda’s purse. “Sorry, I have to take this call.” Amanda made tracks for the front entrance, pulling out her second phone on the way. “Ian, I need to talk to you about that series of snapshots you sent from Miami. I need more photos. We may have stumbled onto something bigger than catching Winston Lamont porking prostitutes. That flamboyant picture in the condo’s living room? It once belonged to Marco Farms CEO Gordon Harding…and I suspect it still does.”

THREE

Tuesday December 8, Morning

Panting, Chad dashed
up the stairs to the third floor, taking two at a time, late for his morning scrum with Amanda. She’d make him pay for every minute he kept her waiting. A force to be reckoned with.

He threw his coat and briefcase on his desk, grabbed a tablet and pen and sprinted into Jasmine’s area. “Catch your breath, she’s not in.”

“Amanda’s late?”

“Delayed. She called; she’s on her way. Grab a coffee quick and get settled in her office so she thinks you showed up on time.”

“You’re a saint, Jaz.”

“Never, ever, call me Jaz, Cooper.”

“Hey, that’s a great sweater.”

Jasmine pursed her lips and an ebony eyebrow shot up. “Really? You think that’ll work on me?”

“No, honestly—it’s beautiful.” The rich blues reminded him of the Caribbean waters in one of those technicolor tropical paradise calendars.

He scurried back to his desk for a couple of files, filled up a coffee cup on the way to Amanda’s office and then sat down at her conference table. He jotted down notes on what he’d accomplished on the list of cases since Monday’s meeting and then checked his iPhone for an update on Wyoming. No luck.

Still no Amanda. For the first time, he was alone in her office. He’d never noticed much about her realm, always focused on the work. The contemporary lines of the sofa and conference table clashed with the heavy, traditional wooden desk. A bit unsettling, not unlike his boss.

A row of picture frames on her credenza caught his eye. In one at the Garfield Park Conservatory, Amanda stood arm-in-arm with an older version of herself. It had to be Amanda’s mother—he’d heard about Elizabeth Sloane. Longtime staff members talked about Mrs. Sloane’s geniality and her addictive double fudge brownies. With such a warm and pleasant parent, how did Amanda grow up with a crust hard enough to pulverize diamonds?

In another picture in front of Buckingham Fountain in Grant Park, Amanda hugged a teenage boy. The pair looked close in the snapshot, like family. Did she have a child? Chad had heard she never married, but no one mentioned offspring. He couldn’t imagine her mothering a gerbil, much less a son. But in the photo, Amanda appeared so blissful Chad barely recognized her—as if she had peeled off the “business bitch” persona and let her humanity shine through.

Amanda posed with a woman and two men in a couple of pictures. One snapshot looked pretty old.
No way.
He pulled off his glasses and brought the frame up to his face for a closer look. The gaudy decor—was that The Frog and Fox? They dragged Amanda into the cheesiest burger joint in the city? He scrutinized the faces of these three people who must matter to his boss.

A scenic lake filled the background in the other photo, probably somewhere in Wisconsin’s Northwoods. The same foursome looked at ease with each other. The Amanda laughing in the picture couldn’t be the same woman who kicked his butt on a daily basis. Maybe someday he’d meet the Dr. Jekyll behind the Ms. Hyde.

Chad didn’t expect to see pictures of her father and his second family, but how about the “boy toy?” No picture of her hotshot-attorney-senator-wannabe? How odd.

As he turned toward the conference table, a bag sitting next to the cabinet caught his eye. Yarn, the color of Jasmine’s sweater, peeked over the edge.
It couldn’t be, could it? Behind closed doors the fierce fashionista knits?
He chuckled at the image of Amanda in a robe and flannel pajamas, curled up on the couch, knitting—heck, maybe she even owned one of those fleece blankets with sleeves.

A wrinkled newspaper with a red circle grabbed his attention. Amanda? Engaged? The guy had to possess balls of steel. Maybe Matthew Baird would survive in D.C.

“Sorry I’m late.” She swooshed in, throwing her camelhair coat across the sofa and setting her briefcase and purse on her desk. “Let’s start with the Entwistle case.”

Jasmine stood in the doorway. “Sorry to barge in, but your dad’s on the line again and he says it’s a matter of life and death.”

“Tell him he’s right; one more phone call and I’ll kill him.” She dropped into a chair at the end of the conference table and ran her hand through her long, blonde hair.

Jasmine grimaced like she sucked on a sourball. “In other words, I should tell him you’re off site at a location where your cell phone doesn’t work?”

Amanda leaned back in her seat, raised her chestnut brown eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “Why, oh why couldn’t I be an orphan?”

Chad rose to give her privacy. She waved him down. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m already behind for the day. This’ll only take a second.”

He zeroed in on his notepad and started scribbling, feigning fascination with his caseload.

The phone on the conference table rang and Amanda snatched it up. “Now what?”

“…Sister…missing…no sign of the passport…” Chad picked up bits and pieces of her dad’s voice in spite of himself. He couldn’t stop glancing at Amanda, searching for softness in her eyes or grace in her smile. He’d spotted it in the pictures and witnessed it with clients, but, at the moment, she hid it well.

“Thanks for the update, but you’re on your own. I’m overextended already with the number of cases on my docket. Good luck—and stop calling me.” She hung up. “My life’s turning into a bad soap opera.”

“You too?”

Amanda rested her hands in her lap and rocked in the conference chair, staring at Chad. He met her gaze and waited.

“My sis—Rebecca and her husband disappeared in Mexico two days ago.”

“Your sister.”

Amanda crossed her arms. “My forty-year-old half-sister, a woman I barely know. Now I’m supposed to jump on a plane and help find her.”

“Wow. When are you going? How can I assist?”

“I’m not getting in the middle of that mess. My father can clean up after himself.”

“What’s he found so far?”

“Nothing. He’s landlocked in Florida until he hunts down his passport.”

“Who’s searching for them?”

Amanda shrugged. “The police, I guess.”

Chad laid his tablet and pen on the maple table. “My younger brother died in a car accident when he was sixteen. His first night with a driver’s license. A semi crossed the meridian and collided head-on into Zane’s Vega, killing him instantly. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I still hear his voice. I’d give anything to have my brother back. Maybe you should give your sister a fighting chance.”

“Don’t try to Dr. Phil me—I’ve watched this woman worm her way into my dad’s life, taking over my place in the family. Good riddance, I don’t want her back.”

Chad repositioned himself. “I know it’s not my place, but I’ve been here for a few months and I’ve heard a handful of comments from you about your dad. I don’t think your sister wormed her way in. I think you walked away and left the opening.”

“Don’t make me slap you.”

“Look, I know you’re my boss and all of that, but I’ve been through a few tough times and, when it all falls apart, the ones who matter are your family. Besides, I see it every time you interact with a client: behind all of that bluster beats the heart of a woman who cares.”

“Back off, Oprah.”

* * *

Freedom
. Chad emerged
from Amanda’s office, stretching his shoulders. The morning meeting went long, but for once they didn’t have a deposition over the lunch hour. He relished the idea of a peaceful interlude before a full slate of client meetings. Before another afternoon with “Amanda the Hun.”

Her phone exchange with her father—what a volatile relationship. Chad cringed, imagining them in the same room together. In the courtroom and over depositions, Chad witnessed the ease in which Amanda deftly removed a man’s testicles and handed them to him on a platter. Her father must be a eunuch ten times over.

“Cooper, I left you a load of files for the Dorschel case,” Jasmine said. “It’s good you’re reasonably tall—it’ll help you reach the top of the pile.”

“Thanks for looking out for me, Jaz—I mean Jasmine.”

“Anytime, Cooper.”

He headed down the senior partners’ hall. It oozed wealth: wood paneling, plush carpeting, intricate chandeliers overhead. Chad then turned off into a hall for the stiffs who hadn’t made partner. Plaster walls, tiled floors and fluorescent lighting. He felt more at home in this neck of the woods.

Chad dropped the morning’s paperwork on his dull, gray desk, next to the stack of files courtesy of Jaz. Other than a couple of photos of the kids, his area looked as sparse as that of a temporary employee. It might have been less evident if his younger officemate hadn’t decked out his area with leather accessories, high-tech lighting and some impressive art. Liam Evans’ eagerness to claw his way to the top made Chad feel a bit grimy after spending time with him. Ironically, the guy reminded Chad of a younger version of some of the ex-husbands he encountered in court.

His phone vibrated with a call from Vince Morgan. “What’s the situation? Are they in Wyoming?”

“Yep, two hours away from the last spot.”

“Any idea why so close?”

“I think they nabbed a place in the backwoods somewhere. It’s going to take some work to hunt down their location, but I’ve seen them. They’re in the area. I got a good feeling about this time.”

“Keep me posted.”