You Can't Escape (5 page)

Chapter Three

“Learn anything?” Detective Gretchen Sanders asked, her voice tinny and faraway. September had her on speakerphone while she climbed into the driver’s side of her department-issue Jeep.

Setting the phone in the cup holder, September answered, “Not much. Maxwell Saldano acted shell-shocked, disbelieving. He professes to be worried about his brother-in-law.”

“Danziger. The guy caught up in the blast,” her partner said.

“Yep. I’m heading to Laurelton General now to interview him.”

“Head injury . . . looks to be minor, and his leg’s messed up?”

“That’s what I’m hearing. That, and he’s going to be released today.”

“Doctor let him out already?” Gretchen asked suspiciously.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Let me know when you do.”

September’s partner had been put on administrative leave the previous fall after killing a man who was doing his damndest to kill September. Though Gretchen had been cleared and been back on the job most of this year, their boss, Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal, had been very careful about putting her on assignment with September again. Too careful, both Gretchen and September felt, but there had been two separate shootings involving police in a very short period of time, and it had ratcheted up the public anxiety to such a degree that both the Laurelton Police Department and the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department were being extremely careful. Both Gretchen and September worked for Laurelton PD, and though Gretchen’s shooting had been entirely justified and had undoubtedly saved September’s life, D’Annibal wanted to keep it a non-topic in the current turbulent political climate.

Which was a long way of explaining why September was interviewing people affected by the bombing at Saldano Industries by herself and why the whole enterprise was irritating her partner no end.

“Bernstein from Portland PD checked with the Saldanos right after the bombing. They’re probably taking over the investigation,” September said.

Gretchen answered, “No surprise there. Saldanos have a lot more businesses outside Laurelton than in it. But D’Annibal wants us on the case.”

“For follow-up,” September reminded her.

“And to keep an oar in the water. Doesn’t want Laurelton PD to be pushed around.”

“Yeah. Okay, I’m on my way to the hospital.”

“Keep me informed.”

“You bet.”

September clicked off, then turned the Jeep away from Victor Saldano’s sprawling Italian-style manor with its flattish roof, wide eaves, and massive, filigreed brackets. Victor was the patriarch of the Saldano family and a true pain in the ass. Autocratic, short-tempered, opinionated, and impatient, he’d had no interest in being cooperative. “You should be looking for whoever bombed us!” he’d yelled at September, waving his right arm around as if he wanted her to saddle up and hit the range. His son, Maxwell Saldano, had tried to rein in his father, apologizing for his behavior at the same time. “My father hasn’t been well. We already told the other investigators the same thing.”

The other investigators were Detective Dan Bernstein and probably his partner with the Portland PD, who’d muscled in immediately after the bombing was reported. Lieutenant D’Annibal had asked September to reinterview the Saldanos and Jay Danziger as a means of keeping his team on the case, as he’d gotten his feathers ruffled over jurisdiction. ATF investigators were already examining the bomb itself, or what was left of it, so in many ways September’s follow-up was superfluous. Still, if she could learn anything, she would.

“I understand you were supposed to be at the site?” September had asked Maxwell.

“I was.” He nodded. “But I got a call from Raydeen. Raydeen Abolear,” he added. “My father’s nurse. Dad was having chest pains and didn’t want Raydeen to send for an ambulance.”

Victor had snapped his wrist impatiently at the dark-haired woman who hovered nearby. “I was fine! Treats me like I’m going to break.”

“They were still arguing about it when I was on the phone, so I turned around and came here,” Max said. “We sent for the ambulance.”

“And I didn’t get in it,” Victor said triumphantly, as if it were a contest. “A little oxygen was all I needed. I don’t plan to go to that hospital again until I’m at death’s door, and I don’t plan to be there in this lifetime.” He chuckled at his little joke, but his eyes glared at the nurse.

“I’m on a kind of twenty-four-hour alert,” Max explained to September, which drew Victor’s glare to him, instead of Raydeen. “I was supposed to meet Dance, but I turned around. I was on the phone. I didn’t call him and tell him.”

“You could have gone,” Victor declared, though September thought he was over-minimizing his condition. His pallor was gray and there was a whiff of the scent September associated with age and illness, something damp and slightly sour overlaid by acrid cleaning substances, floating in the air throughout the first-floor rooms Victor Saldano used as his own personal suite. Though the house was large and rambling, a beautiful addition to the huge stately manors dotting Portland’s West Hills, which embraced spectacular views of the city and the Willamette River, September sensed most of the rooms were empty and unused.

“The FBI was here,” Victor complained, lifting his hand again and snapping it down. “Bah. Treated us like criminals.”

“The ATF. Not like criminals,” Max corrected.

“I’m with Laurelton PD,” September said.

“You say your name was Rafferty?” Victor queried.

“That’s right,” she answered.

“That FBI man said you’d be coming,” Victor said with a grimace.

“Who?” September asked.

“It was the Portland PD detective,” Max corrected again.

“Bernstein?” she inquired.

“Never liked G-men,” Victor overrode her, speaking loudly. Max Saldano gave her a quick nod as Victor ran on. “Humorless robots, every one. All they want to do is find some reason to close us down.”

“Dad, the ATF was here because of the bomb,” Max said with extreme patience.

“‘Bomb experts.’” Victor snorted. “You know what their attitude was, miss?” He turned back to September, black eyes glittering. “That we deserved it. We’re the goddamn Sopranos, that’s what they think.”

“Come on, Dad . . .” Max was long-suffering.

“You know I’m right.” Victor rounded on him. “Given half a chance they’d throw us all in jail! We couldn’t possibly be running a legitimate business. That would be too much for their walnut-sized brains to consider!”

Max ignored his father and gave his attention solely to September. “I’d like to see Dance . . . Jay . . . but I can’t get information from the hospital.”

“Don’t give them any reason to suspect us further!” Victor exclaimed.

“I’ll let him know. I’m going there next.” She, too, tried to ignore the Saldano patriarch.

“Thanks,” Max said.

“Young lady, you need to find who’s responsible for this attack on us!” Victor’s voice rose as he tried to commandeer the conversation again. He went on about how maybe it was a competitor, reversing his earlier stance on the subject. Raydeen moved closer, clearly worried about what Victor’s anger was doing to his health because as his voice rose, his gray pallor took on a red tinge, anger suffusing his face. When one of his hands crawled up his chest to above his heart, Raydeen said, “Please stop, Mr. Victor,” her eyes shooting daggers at Max, who called an end to the interview.

September was about ready to call 9-1-1 herself, but the nurse knew what to do. Soon enough Victor’s pallor had lost its wild color and subsided back to the pale-gray shade that was apparently its normal shade. With all of them watching Victor tensely, she’d thanked them all for their time, then let Max show her out.

As the door shut behind her, she’d put a call in to Officer McDermott, the testy fifty-two-year-old cop who’d been stationed at Laurelton General in the first crazy hours of the bombing’s aftermath, and alerted him that she was on her way to the hospital. He’d answered tersely and she’d inwardly sighed, having run up against him or his ilk enough times to know they felt that there was no way she’d gotten her job out of merit. She was too young and, well, not the right gender.

Ah, well. Such was life.

Directly after the bombing, when everything was crazy and no one knew how many patients there were, officers had been sent to various hospitals around the area. Luckily, only Jay Danziger had been severely hurt, and the half dozen people who’d been close enough to be hit by shrapnel had been treated for their cuts and scrapes as hospital outpatients. D’Annibal wanted September to interview them as well, as a matter of course, but first on the list was Danziger.

She was almost glad to leave the Saldanos to the Portland PD and the ATF. Max seemed fine enough, but dealing with his father was no picnic. “Have at it,” she said after hanging up from Gretchen and making her way down from the West Hills to Sunset Highway and back toward Laurelton.

She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say to Jay Danziger when she saw him, but it didn’t really matter. She was on a routine job that would end today, and then maybe D’Annibal would partner her with Gretchen again. Though September had originally found Gretchen’s “take no prisoners” style a bit over the top and aggressive, and she’d certainly enjoyed working with Wes Pelligree, the “black cowboy” as he was affectionately referred to around the department, she was looking forward to being back with her original partner, especially since Pelligree would be re-partnering with George Thompkins, the only other detective at Laurelton PD. George had a tendency to just ride his desk chair and use the phone and Internet rather than interview in person, but he somehow managed to get the job done well enough. Pelligree, though easy to work with, almost preferred investigating on his own.

Now September glanced down at the ring on her finger. May sunlight was half-blinding her and she lifted her left hand to flip down the visor, the light refracting in flashing slivers off the stone. The previous summer she’d reconnected with a high school hook-up, Jake Westerly, and had never looked back. They’d moved in together last fall and at Christmas he’d gotten down on one knee in front of a yuletide fire and proposed. She’d been blown away, but had managed to nod out a “yes,” and now they were on the road to marriage.

“I’m engaged,” she said aloud now. “To be married. To the man I love.”

Why she found that prospect so alarming, she couldn’t say. Her brother had been living with his girlfriend for months. They were talking marriage in a desultory manner but weren’t technically engaged yet, and neither of them seemed to be worrying about that. She, on the other hand, was filled with angst. She wanted Jake. No question there. She wanted a life with him. And after the frightening accident that had nearly killed him, she’d been by his side constantly, irrationally afraid of losing him to some other unforeseen calamity that was just waiting to happen.

But now she wondered if they might be rushing things. Her emotions were all over the place and it was their fault that she’d said yes. Two nights earlier, she’d said as much to Jake while they’d been curled up together on the couch, watching television under the warmth of the quilt her grandmother had made for her when she was a girl.

“Cold feet?” he’d asked, looking into her eyes, his blue eyes searching hers.

“No . . .”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“I’m sure about us. It’s marriage I’ve got a problem with. It doesn’t work for everybody. Look at my family. . . .”

“You and I aren’t your father and Rosamund.”

“God, no,” she agreed. Her father had married a much younger woman and they’d just had a baby girl the past

January, naming her, well, January. Her father’s penchant for naming his children after the month they were born was well-documented. Her twin brother, August, had been born just before midnight of September first, and she’d been born directly afterward. Hence, they were August and September, though people who knew them called them Auggie and Nine—her nickname, since September was the ninth month.

“My father makes me crazy,” September said. Braden Rafferty still tried to direct his grown children’s lives, even if they didn’t listen to him anymore. She and Auggie had thwarted their father by going into law enforcement against his wishes, but that didn’t stop Braden from trying to get her to quit. He’d pretty much given up on Auggie, who kept himself far, far away from Braden’s influence, but no matter how hard September tried to stay as aloof and distant as her twin, she seemed to keep getting dragged back into family drama time and time again.

“So, you want to put off the engagement?” Jake’s tone had been neutral, but September had felt his tension.

“No,” she’d answered quickly. “I want to be engaged.”

“But—?”

“Just don’t get offended while I work this out, okay?” she cut him off. “It’s going to take me a while. You have parents who love each other and their kids. I don’t.”

“Your father loves you,” he argued, but she’d seen the beginnings of a smile lurking around his mouth.

“You’re trying not to laugh,” she declared, hitting him with a throw pillow.

“Only because you Raffertys make it so goddamn hard. What’s wrong with just saying ‘I love you’?”

“Blasphemy,” she retorted, which elicited a full-scale bark of laughter.

And then he’d thrown her down on the cushions, wrestling and tickling her, all the while crying, “I love you, I love you, I love you!” over and over again. She’d first tried to escape, then collapsed into gales of laughter and finally succumbed to molten desire as they made love into the wee hours of the morning.

Now, as September wheeled into the hospital parking lot, she purposely pushed thoughts of Jake and her family aside and concentrated on the matter at hand, interviewing Jay Danziger.

Jordanna stood on first one foot and then the other as Danziger looked through mounds of paperwork. “Are you ready yet?” She stepped to the door and risked another glance into the hallway.

“I’m just lucky I got ’em,” he muttered. “I’ve got prescriptions that need to be filled, too.” He placed several small papers to one side as he glanced over the spread-out pages on the narrow table that reached across his bed.