Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (24 page)

Still . . . seventy-five bucks would be really nice. It would give her Jimmy Choo shoe fund a nice boost. She’d had her eye on those budget-breaking open-toed red spikes for months. At the glacial rate her fund was growing, they’d be discontinued before she could order them.

She fingered the card. “How did you get my name and address?”

“All of the people we’re talking with are referrals. Someone must have given your name and phone number to one of our people, and I was asked to contact you. Normally I’d call in advance to set up an interview, but I found your address in the phone directory and since I was in the area, I decided to take a chance you’d be home. I hoped you’d be willing to pick up a few dollars for twenty minutes of shooting the breeze.” He gave her that megawatt smile again.

Seventy-five bucks was compelling, no question about it. Why not talk to the man—as long as it was on her terms?

“I’m game. But could we meet at the coffee shop at the corner? It’s half a block down on the left. I could be there in ten minutes.”

“That works for me. I do a lot of interviews in public places. People often feel more secure there. See you shortly.”

With that, he turned away and retraced his steps toward the street.

Faith watched him disappear down the walkway in front of the four-family flat she called home, then read his card again before she tucked it in the pocket of her jeans. Seventy-five bucks for twenty minutes. Not bad.

If she was lucky, maybe he’d spring for a latte too.

She was still alive—but for how long?

From her seated position on the floor, back against the wall, Darcy drew her legs up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and
stared at the shackle on her left ankle. Her gaze followed the attached chain six feet to the metal ring tucked in behind the now-empty refrigerator, which had been pulled away from the wall. The ring had been there all along; she’d just never noticed it. The other girls probably hadn’t, either—until the end.

Another wave of nausea rolled through her, and she tensed, ready to spring toward the bathroom if necessary. The chain was long enough to allow her to reach the toilet—good thing, because she’d thrown up twice in the seven hours and ten minutes since Mark had left her here—but not long enough to reach the bed or chair. That was deliberate, she was certain. The man was methodical and precise.

He’d also stopped communicating with her. He hadn’t said one word as he’d dragged her back down the steps after her escape attempt, pausing only to slap her into submission when she resisted. And he hadn’t returned.

But she wasn’t in any hurry to hear his key in the lock, either. The next time he appeared might be the end.

She let out an unsteady breath, fighting back tears. Her whole face ached. So did her stomach. But those injuries would heal.

You didn’t recover from death.

And that’s where she was headed.

She’d read it in Mark’s eyes. He’d disengaged from her—probably the same way he’d disengaged from Angela and Denise before he killed them. And who was that third person he’d mentioned? Lil. Had death been her fate too?

The acrid taste of fear and vomit coalesced in her mouth, and she pulled herself to her feet and lurched into the bathroom. Twisting the tap, she bent down, slurped up a mouthful of water, swished it around, then spit it out. A piece of hard candy would help dispel the unpleasant flavor, but the few provisions in the room were out of reach.

Bracing herself on the edge of the sink, she forced herself to swallow some of the water. Dehydration would be debilitating,
and she needed to stay alert. Laura was at risk, and if there was anything she could still do to keep her sister safe, she intended to attempt it—no matter the risk.

Because at this point, she had nothing to lose.

For the second time in one day, Dev woke to the piercing, high-pitched ring tone of the BlackBerry on his nightstand.

Pulling himself back from the dark abyss of exhaustion, he forced his eyelids open. The room was pitch-black, meaning he’d been out cold since he’d arrived home from Laura’s at one and fallen face-first onto the bed, fully clothed. It had to be past five now—and he had a feeling he hadn’t moved an inch.

After groping for the cell, he peered at caller ID until the readout came into focus. Cal. “What’ve you got?”

“I had a fruitful talk with Faith Bradley.”

He pushed himself into a sitting position. “I take it the consulting pretext worked?”

“Like a charm. Those generic cards we had printed last year, and the phone line that rolls to an answering service, are worth their weight in gold. Long story short, I hit pay dirt on my question about what qualities she thought were important for a daycare manager, and could she single anyone out at her own operation who exemplified those.”

“She mentioned Hamilton.”

“Yep. She sang his praises for a full minute. Talked about how kind and caring he was with the children, how meticulous he was about cleanliness, how he always came in early and stayed late, how he had strict, very old-fashioned moral standards. But after I dug a little deeper, she also mentioned he was hard to get to know, seemed to be a loner since he never talked about family or friends or his social life, and that he’d been acting very preoccupied lately. She speculated it might be due to a brand-new girlfriend—because when she’d probed a few weeks ago about whether he had any
romantic interests, he’d told her he didn’t have time for personal relationships.”

Dev rubbed the grit from his eyes. “How did you get her to talk about all that stuff?”

“I’m a very sympathetic listener—or so Moira tells me. Women find undivided attention appealing, in case you haven’t figured that out by now.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“No charge. Back on subject, I don’t think she knows anything about Hamilton’s personal life. It sounds like their relationship is totally employer/employee, much to her regret. Other than the few insights she offered about his character today, I’d say she’s a dead end in terms of your case.”

Dev stood and started to pace. There was a disconnect somewhere in the information Faith had offered . . . some inconsistency that hovered just out of reach . . . wait.

He stopped. “You know, if Faith is right about Mark having such high moral standards, doesn’t it strike you as odd he’d have a brand-new girlfriend spending the night or maybe even living with him? As far as I know, she’s still there. Connor hasn’t called to say she left.”

“She is. I talked to Connor half an hour ago. I don’t know if I buy your theory, though. Hamilton could just be one of those people who presents one face in public and a very different one in private. Working with young children, it wouldn’t behoove him to advertise a promiscuous lifestyle.”

“My gut tells me it’s more than that.” Dev shoved his fingers through his hair. “There’s something not right about this guy. I can feel it.”

“Well, I’m not going to dispute your instincts. They’ve saved my hide on more than one occasion. But I don’t think Faith is going to be of any help. By the way, Connor said to let you know none of the plates he ran on the cars parked near Hamilton’s house produced anyone who remotely fit the description of the woman Faith saw in his window.”

Another dead end.

“Then where did she come from?”

“Maybe Hamilton picked her up at her place or she took a cab. She might even be a neighbor who popped in the back door.”

Dev frowned. “I don’t think she’s a neighbor. This guy isn’t Mr. Sociability. Besides, he might be a recluse off the job, but I doubt his neighbors are hermits. They all come and go, and none of us has spotted anyone at his front door or in a car pulling out of the alley who fits the description Faith provided.”

“Maybe she’ll leave Monday, while Hamilton’s at work.”

He started pacing again. “Yeah. And I’ll be cooling my heels at the daycare center, watching his car.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “One set of eyes on the house is fine when he’s home, because if she leaves with him, we can follow, and if she leaves by cab or car, we can get a license. But we need another set on the house while Hamilton’s at work.”

“Is your client willing to pick up the extra expense?”

“I’ll ask. It can’t be for long, because the woman has to leave sometime.”

“Sounds like a plan. Meanwhile, I’m going home to share supper with my wife.”

“Sorry again about interrupting your day with Moira.”

“Not a problem. Two minutes after you called, she got a hot lead on a big story she’s working on and had to take off anyway. With the unpredictability of both of our professions, I think that’s going to be the story of our life.”

One side of Dev’s mouth rose. “Would you rather go back to being single?”

“Not a chance. Thanks for the perspective check.”

“Anytime. Talk to you later.”

With one last, longing look at the bed, Dev headed for the kitchen to nuke a frozen dinner. Then he’d take a shower, throw in some laundry, and call Laura to see if she was on board with the additional surveillance.

All the while trying not to envy Cal his much-deserved second chance at love.

It was time.

Heart hammering, Mark crept into his mother’s bedroom. Lil was out cold, arms flung to the sides, head half off the pillow and tilted back, mouth open. With all the liquor she’d downed—not to mention whatever the drug of choice had been last night—it would be hours before she roused from the stupor. But the crushed Ambien he’d stirred into her drink while she wasn’t looking gave him extra insurance. He didn’t want her waking up in the middle of everything.

If she opened her eyes, he’d lose his nerve.

Mark tiptoed next to the bed, the faint, familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine from her perfume drifting his way. Sometimes it was hard to see Lil’s resemblance to the high school graduation photo she kept tucked in her dresser. The one he liked to look at when he needed to remind himself who she really was, underneath the booze and sex and drugs.

But time—and her dissipated lifestyle—hadn’t been kind to her. Free of makeup, her skin was mottled and shadows hung under her eyes. The meth she’d begun using was also taking a toll, aging her beyond her years. She looked like the mother of the young woman in the photo taken just twelve years ago—the woman she’d been before she’d given herself to a man she’d known less than three days, gotten pregnant, been disowned by her family, and gone down the path of destruction.

Now she’d reached the end of that unhappy road.

Sweat broke out on his brow as he picked up one of the extra pillows on the bed, his fingers clenching around the edge as a tsunami of doubts suddenly crashed over him.

He fought them back, knuckles whitening, heart pounding. He’d thought this through for weeks while shivering out on the freezing
stoop whenever his mother entertained clients. Disgust had left a bitter taste in his mouth as he’d sat there thinking about what was happening inside. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He knew what was going on. Knew what his classmates’ sneers about his mother meant.