License to Lie Read online

  I shift position and feel the key jam into me again. My safety pin! It was huge. I reach behind me and fumble with the pin. I can hear footsteps.

  The pin opens and I scratch myself as I pull it from my jeans. I hear a key in the trunk’s lock. The trunk opens and I’m blinded. The man grabs me and pulls me from the trunk. He’s got me halfway out of the trunk when I slash down with the safety pin.

  I feel the pin rip through his skin.

  “Son of a bitch!” His face screws up in pain. “What the—”

  I slash again, this time catching his cheek. The pin pulls from my hand as he twists away, blood spurting from his face. He lands on the ground and hits his head. He lays there. Still. No movement. Blood pools from his face on the ground.

  I turn and run, vowing never to trust anyone again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Skip

  Skip sat on the concrete wall watching Roxy wait on the bridge. It twisted his gut to see her having to handle this by herself, but they’d agreed that the kidnapper would bolt if she wasn’t alone for the meeting. From his vantage point, which was about a quarter of a mile away, he had a clear view of Roxy. If she made a move, he’d know it the second it happened. If they told her to drive somewhere else, she’d have to go to the far side of the bridge, down the stairs, just to get to her car. It would take her five minutes. He’d need far less than that to get turned around and follow.

  He’d been watching for about ten minutes when the expected happened. She pulled out her cell. He felt certain that the kidnapper was telling her to meet in a new location. He’d keep her moving around until he was sure she was alone. The trick was going to be for Skip to stay far enough away to make the other guy let down his guard.

  They’d worked out a set of signals—rub her neck if the instructions were to go north, stamp her foot if she was going south. Either way, he’d be ready. In a way, it was a relief when the call came in. It meant the kidnapper was still willing to deal and felt comfortable enough that they could move the game forward to the next step. But Roxy gave no sign. No rubbing of her neck, no stamping of her foot. Instead, she glanced north, then hopped the concrete barrier and started across the road.

  Skip swore as she checked traffic coming from the south. What was she doing? When she crossed the center divider, he felt an overwhelming urge to throw up. Not only could he not see her when she started trotting north, his car was pointed in the wrong direction. He had to move, and fast.

  By the time Skip got in his car, traffic had come to a near standstill. He yelled out the window. “Goddammit! Move!” But nothing happened. Didn’t anybody want a goddamn parking spot? He caught a break when the car in front of him inched forward and a guy in a beat-up Chevy let him out. Skip gunned the engine. He crossed over to the left lane just as he approached the turnaround. He glanced in his driver’s mirror. No Roxy. He couldn’t see a damn thing back there. He made his U-turn as the last car in a long line passed him. He hadn’t seen her in over a minute.

  He drove north on Carlsbad Blvd. and across the bridge, but there was no sign of Roxy. His stomach flip-flopped. Blood pounded in his ears. She was gone.

  Now they had her, too. How could he have let this happen? His biggest concern was no longer whether they could free Richard Tanner, but how he could possibly tell Evelyn that her daughter had been taken also.

  Would they let Roxy go or just take the money and kill her and her father? Could she lie and stall until he found her?

  He pounded the steering wheel as he sat at the red light at Tamarack and Carlsbad Blvd. He stared, dejected, straight ahead and asked himself, “Where the hell did they go?”

  And why in the hell had he let this happen?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Roxy

  “She okay?”

  “Looks like she had a panic attack.”

  I realized that Bush and Nixon were talking about me. My breathing was returning to normal. My head ached in back and on the right side—it felt as though I’d been slammed into something.

  “Glad that’s over.” It sounded like Bush.

  “She’s pretty screwed up.”

  Was that Nixon? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. The side of my head was killing me. I must have banged it on the passenger’s window when the panic set in. I thought about Skip’s soothing voice. Use what you learned, I told myself. Focus on what happened. I replayed Skip’s induction with Mom. Yeah. Calm down. Concentrate.

  I pictured how things had happened. These guys were smart. They’d left nothing to chance. I realized I’d heard them both speak, Nixon when she’d ordered me into the car and Bush after that. That’s right, Nixon, was a woman.

  How long had I been incapacitated by my fears? Probably not long, but—it felt like we’d just pulled into a driveway.

  I heard Nixon shift in the seat next to me. “I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth. If you make a sound, your dad is dead. Got it?”

  I nodded. She removed the tape slowly.

  I muttered a hoarse, “Thank you.” I heard my door open and felt cool air.

  Bush commanded, “Out.”

  The voice wasn’t muffled anymore—they’d ditched the masks.

  I twisted sideways and put my right foot onto the pavement. A hand grabbed my right arm and guided me out of the car. I felt something get thrown over my shoulders. If there was anyone watching, they’d see a couple helping what appeared to be a blind woman—or a drunk—walk. But where?

  In the background I heard traffic noises—cars accelerating, the hum of tires. We must be close to a major intersection. Maybe I-5? A hand seized my arm and pushed me forward. I stumbled on something hard and started to fall. Hands grabbed each of my arms and pulled me up before I could hit the ground.

  “Be careful,” Bush said.

  Was he speaking to me or to Nixon? We’d only walked a short distance when we made a right turn. We walked a little more, then stopped and I heard a key in a lock. A door creaked and one of my captors pushed me forward. We were inside now and the air was heavy with the scent of anticipation and fear. I heard rustling noises of some sort. Someone pulled the coat from my shoulders and took the sunglasses off my face.

  The last thing I expected was for them to pull the tape from my eyes. “Ow!” Having the tape removed hurt, but the brightness in the room was overwhelming. I closed my eyes and then opened them slowly. Still bleary-eyed and handcuffed, I took in the scene around me.

  There were four other people in the room. Besides Bush and Nixon, who had donned their masks again, there was another captor wearing a Bill Clinton mask. Clinton was about five foot eight and stocky. He probably weighed around a 170 pounds. The three captors were dressed identically. All wore black turtleneck shirts and blue jeans. Clinton wore a pair of black tennis shoes I surmised to be brand new, whereas the other two wore old white ones. The other difference was that Clinton had a holster on his hip with a gun at the ready. The other two wore theirs in their waistbands.

  The fourth person was tied to a dining-table chair. He was hooded, but I recognized one of Dad’s shirts and trademark khakis. He, too, was handcuffed, his hands held behind the seat back.

  I summoned my best confident tone. “Dad? Are you okay?”

  A muffled, “Roxy? What are you doing here?”

  Handcuffed and helpless, I smiled at the irony. “I’m here to save you.”

  Dad was silent for a moment, probably trying to process what was happening. “Let her go! I’ll give you whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her.”

  Clinton spoke for the first time. “You don’t have anything we want. She does.” He glanced at me. “Do you have it?”

  I nodded. “Just like we discussed. I can do a transfer. But I have to be sure you’ll let him go.”

  “You’ll have to trust me on that.”

  The muscles around my mouth tightened in a grimace driven by the absolute preposterousness of the idea. I, a con artist, had to trust a kidnapper. “In a perverse w
ay, that’s almost funny. You really expect me to just turn over five million without a guarantee?”

  From beneath Dad’s hood, I was sure I heard a groan, then something that sounded like, “Oh, Roxy.”

  Clinton unhooked the safety strap on his holster. My gaze remained on the gun.

  He crossed his arms. My heart pounded. My throat went dry.

  “Good,” he said. “You understand. Your only guarantee is that if you don’t transfer the money, you and daddy die right here, right now.”

  The room started to spin. Everything I’d worked for was going to be gone and I couldn’t even be sure my dad would be safe.

  “Give Miss Tanner a chair. I think she needs to sit down,” Clinton said.

  Nixon crossed the room and dragged a chair to where I stood. “Here.”

  That voice. It was muffled, but familiar. I sat.

  “You have two minutes to decide,” Clinton said.

  I didn’t need two minutes, my answer was obvious. “I can’t transfer the money if I’m handcuffed.”

  Clinton shook his head. “You think I’m that stupid?”

  Did that mean he knew about my martial arts training? Did he expect me to take on three of them when they had guns? Either this guy wasn’t that bright or he knew me better than I knew myself. “I don’t have my computer,” I whined.

  He nodded in the general direction behind me.

  I stood and crossed the room to the computer. “Internet and all, huh?”

  “Get to it.”

  Though I couldn’t see their faces, the other two kidnappers appeared nervous. Nixon fidgeted with her mask, then took up a position I recognized immediately. The voice. I realized who that voice belonged to. “Ste . . .” I caught myself. If they realized I knew who one of them was, Dad and I were dead. I studied Bush.

  He stammered, “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” I spat. “I’m looking at nothing.”

  Bush charged in my direction, but my kick caught him squarely in the groin and sent him screaming to the floor. He curled up in the fetal position, but before I could even think about enjoying my small victory, a kick from behind took my legs out from under me. I landed with a thud that drove the air from my lungs.

  “Roxy! Roxy! Are you okay?” Dad yelled from beneath the hood. He jerked in futility against his restraints.

  Clinton stood over me, the barrel of his gun pointed at my head. “You shouldn’t have left your back exposed.”

  He was right, I’d made a beginner’s mistake. And he knew it.

  “Roxy! If you’ve hurt her—”

  Clinton said, “She’s fine.” The mask stared at me. “Pull another stunt like that and you’ll be dead before you hit the floor. I’m not an amateur, Miss Tanner. I let you have that one to teach him a lesson. There’ll be no next time. Understood?”

  His voice was calm and devoid of emotion. My insides churned with a dangerous combination of rage and fear that pumped my system full of adrenaline and dulled my senses. I nodded, not sure if words would come out.

  I glanced at where Bush lay on the floor and realized that Nixon, the person I thought was Stella, was tending to him. Did they know each other? How well?

  Underneath his hood, I heard Dad sobbing. “This is my fault. Roxy, are you okay?”

  Clinton shook his head. He pointed at Bush. “Get him down to the car. This is only going to take a couple of minutes.”

  Nixon helped Bush to stand and they hobbled toward the door. Meanwhile, Clinton backed away. “On your feet, Miss Tanner.”

  “Roxy?” Dad’s sobs grew louder.

  “I’m fine, Daddy. This will all be over soon enough.” But would we be alive?

  It was just Clinton and me—odds I might be willing to chance if he didn’t have a gun, if my hands weren’t locked in these damn cuffs, if he didn’t have fifty pounds on me and if he didn’t know how to fight at least as well as I did. Rationalizations. They were all rationalizations to mask my fear.

  Clinton pointed the gun at my dad’s hood. “What’s it going to be, Miss Tanner?”

  Using both hands, I pushed myself up and stood. “I’m up. Now what?”

  “You need to log into your bank account and transfer the money. After that, I’ll leave you two alone—and alive. You’ll be free to leave. I’ll even give you this.” He held up a small key, which he probably wanted me to believe was for the handcuffs.

  “Right.” I could feel the tears welling. I couldn’t let this man see me cry.

  “As I said, it’s your only choice. Your money will do you no good in hell.”

  The brutal truth of his statement stunned me. The silence in the room was the sound of my world crashing down around me. Clinton was right. I had nothing to lose. My nest egg was lost either way. An uncontrollable trembling preceded the first tear. I loathed the idea of showing my captor that he’d broken me, but I couldn’t stop it. I’d lost control over everything in my life. Everything. And this man was responsible for it all. I wanted to kill him.

  Clinton motioned with the gun.

  For the first time since I’d gotten out of diapers, I had to completely trust another human being. In one swift lesson, I’d learned to never trust a soul. And now, I had to trust this—this criminal—someone not that different from me. My alternative was to die with my father, his death on my conscience. Through bleary eyes, I realized the most basic fact of all. In the game of life, I’d failed.

  I held up my manacled hands. “You win.” Tears streamed down my cheeks. My voice caught. “Whatever you do to me, please, let him live?”

  He motioned with the gun again. “My half of the transfer is already set up. Add your information and you two are free.”

  I closed my eyes and turned toward the computer. As I sat there, trying to bring the screen into focus between my tears, I kept hearing my mother’s voice. “You keep that watch. It’s a fake . . .”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Skip

  The light at Tamarack turned green and Skip gunned the Porsche. He drove home as fast as he dared and made it in seven minutes. He rushed into his condo, woke up the computer and quickly typed in the address for the GPS locator service. Thirty seconds later, he knew where Roxy’s phone was located. If she still had her phone, he knew where she was. What if she didn’t?

  He knew if he called the police now, he risked putting both Roxy and her dad into a hostage situation. It was also possible that the kidnappers had ditched her phone. No, he needed to be sure. He’d drive to the location. If he saw something suspicious, he’d call the cops. If he didn’t, he’d poke around, pretend to be lost. Once he was sure of her location, he could move.

  Less than ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of a rundown apartment building. Five cars were scattered around the lot—a blue Buick that was missing a wheel, a beat-up red Mustang, two Honda Civics, both tan, and a white Ford Focus. All of the cars were empty as far as he could tell, but there was a woman walking away from the Focus. In her left hand, she held something that flopped around as she walked. Skip got out of the car and watched her closely, his stomach knotting as he realized that the object she carried was a Halloween mask and that she had a gun in the waistband of her jeans in the small of her back.

  He could take her out, right now. That might give him leverage.

  Skip walked quickly toward the woman and said, “Miss? Hey, can you help me? I’m kind of lost.”

  The woman faced him, irritation etched on her face. She had dark hair that stood up in back as though she’d been necking. Or taken off a mask, he thought. The sleeves of her black turtleneck had been pushed up and she had perspiration on her forehead. He pulled a business card from his wallet.

  Skip did his best to sound sincere. “I’m looking for this apartment. My friend wrote down his number, but I can’t read his writing and don’t know this place. Maybe you could—”

  He leaned into her as if to show her the card. She put her left hand behind her, in a wea
k attempt to hide the mask. She grimaced, obviously unhappy with the intrusion, but unwilling to make a scene by refusing him help.

  She jerked her head. “The manager’s place is over there. She can probably help you.” She started to back away.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. If you could just read this.” He leaned in again, now less than a foot away.

  She made another face and shook her head. “Whatever.”

  Skip’s blow struck with a force that sent the woman sprawling. The mask flew from her hand and landed in the bushes. She fell sideways, then hit the ground face down. I hope that hurt, Skip thought.

  He landed on top of her and pulled the gun from her waistband. “Where’s Roxy Tanner?”

  He flipped her over. Her eyes were glazed and her vision obviously blurred. He’d hit her harder than he’d intended, but the blow had apparently taken away her will to resist.

  She sputtered a mouthful of blood. “Four. She’s in four.”

  “How many others?”

  She held up one finger. “He’s got a gun.”

  He flipped off the safety and checked the magazine. “You’re going in first. Blow this and you’ll be dead. Don’t tip him off.”

  He hauled her up and shoved her toward Apartment 4, which had the drapes drawn. To his left, in a different apartment, he noticed the drapes slip closed, like a gentle wave—someone had been watching.

  At the door to Apartment 4, he whispered, “Do you need to knock first?”

  She shook her head. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time for that. Just remember to be cool.”

  She turned the doorknob. Skip took a deep breath. This one’s for all the marbles, he thought. Winner takes all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Roxy

  No sooner had my finger pressed the send button than I heard the front door open. I shot a glance over my shoulder. Stella stood in the doorway. She had no mask on. Blood stained her chin. Behind her stood Skip, in his hand, a gun. From the corner of my eye, I saw Clinton reach for his holster.