License to Lie Read online

  If it was someone other than Skip—oh, no. Clinton. I needed to be ready.

  Slip. Clunk. Slip. Clunk.

  I felt an adrenaline rush coming on as I crept to the open doorway and craned my neck to peek around the corner.

  A man stood at the CD case, pulling and replacing CDs.

  The man wore an unbuttoned aloha shirt over a navy T-shirt. He had on a pair of faded jeans. His height and weight matched Clinton’s. His pristine black tennis shoes were identical to those I’d seen yesterday. I hadn’t seen the face of the man behind the Clinton mask, but those shoes and build were unmistakable. It was my kidnapper.

  I sucked in a breath.

  He glanced in my direction as he pulled a CD from the rack.

  Shit! I had less than two seconds to find a weapon. I scanned the room, frantically searching for something to use against him. Nothing, except for Stella’s surfing paddle on the wall just outside the door. All I had to do was reach around and grab it.

  The kidnapper said, “Well, goddamn. Hey, kid.”

  He started in my direction. I landed a kick to his solar plexus, which sent him staggering backward, stunned. He shook his head and fought for breath for a second, then came at me again. I grabbed the paddle and crouched, knees flexed, weight on the balls of my feet, ready to attack.

  He chuckled.

  The shiny tooth Mom had described gleamed, sending a chill down my back.

  “Okay, Paddle Girl, I’m gonna tear you apart.”

  “Leave my family alone! You got your money.”

  He glanced at the CD in his hand. A half smile spread across his lips. “Now I do.”

  I caught a glimpse of the CD cover. It was black with some sort of flowing silver script.

  He started to stuff the CD into the pocket of his jeans, but it wouldn’t fit.

  A key jiggled in the lock. We both heard it.

  “Roxy? I’m going to have to leave soon.”

  It was Marjorie.

  A flash of concern showed on his face. Now he had two witnesses to eliminate. He glanced at the door. I saw my opening.

  I swung the paddle as hard as I could. It landed squarely on the side of his head with a loud crack and sent him tumbling into the CD rack. CDs spilled from the rack onto the floor.

  The door opened and Marjorie shrieked. The kidnapper shook his head. Blood oozed from a cut under his right eye. I swung again. This time he instinctively blocked my blow, but the force of impact jarred the CD from his grasp. He staggered, then slipped on the pile of cases.

  Marjorie stood aghast just inside the door. The kidnapper reached out and grabbed her arm. As he regained his footing, he shoved her in my direction.

  I held onto the paddle with one hand and seized one of her flailing arms with the other just before she tumbled headfirst into the coffee table. The support was enough that she made a soft, but not very graceful, landing on the floor. I continued to grip my weapon, determined to take this guy down.

  Clinton still seemed dazed. A trickle of blood from the cut under his right eye ran down the side of this face. Whatever he wanted was in that pile of CDs, but the case he wanted was now among fifty others. He shook his head as if trying to clear it.

  Despite the adrenaline flooding my system as I inched closer, I made sure to keep my stance low, my knees flexed. My words didn’t even sound like they came from me. They sounded more like those of a crazed fanatic. “You’re not getting anything.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Skip

  It took Skip less than a minute to move the Porsche from in front of the van to one of the parking spaces on the opposite side of the car that was causing Davy’s panic. He tucked the Porsche in nice and close to the driver’s door of the other car and left the engine running. Skip deliberately put his front bumper a few inches from the driver’s door. The guy had already been a jerk. He wasn’t going anywhere as long as Davy was in this lot with that van. Once Davy got the truck out of the lot, the Porsche could be moved quickly back to its original spot.

  Skip heard the moving van’s engine cranking over as he trotted to the driver’s door. The truck’s engine rumbled to life and Davy stared down at Skip from the driver’s window. Skip hoped that Davy’s chin quivered from the truck’s vibration, not fear.

  “That’s a mighty small space,” said Davy.

  Skip stepped back and checked the distance between the cars. “It’s not that bad. I thought you drove this from Vegas?”

  Davy’s head bobbed up and down. “Forward, man. I never had to, like, back up or anything.”

  “Davy, you need to do this. You’ll feel better once you’ve threaded that needle.”

  “It’s that small?” Fear permeated Davy’s voice.

  Skip laughed. “Just a figure of speech, man. Relax. This van isn’t that big and the space between the cars isn’t that small. No problem. Pull forward to the end of the lot.”

  Davy followed Skip’s instructions and positioned the truck.

  Skip stood beside the driver’s door. “Okay, what you’re going to do is crank the wheel to the left while you back up. It’ll be like doing a seven-point turn on a narrow street. You’ve done one of those before, right?”

  “Not in anything this big.”

  “Forget what you’re driving. Just imagine this is a small truck and you’ve got complete control.”

  Davy bit at his lower lip. “That’s kinda hard from up here.”

  “Davy,” Skip scolded. “I’ll be at the back of the truck. I’ll motion like this,” he put both hands up with his fingers spread wide, “when it’s time to stop. You can’t crank the wheel too hard on this first turn because of the curb. Okay, let’s go.”

  Skip stood back by the vehicle that had caused the problem and motioned for Davy to back up. The truck inched toward him and gradually turned until it was at about a fifteen degree angle. He motioned to stop and the truck jerked as Davy jammed on the brakes.

  Skip smiled as he approached the driver’s door. “Good job. Now you’re going to crank the wheel hard to the right and go forward.”

  It took a couple of more turns and some additional coaxing, but Davy finally got the truck positioned to where he’d be able to back out without trouble. Meanwhile, Skip kept an eye on the parking lot. He was thankful that no one showed up to park while he was playing driving instructor. He was also thankful that the driver of the other car hadn’t shown up either. In retrospect, he wished that he’d just put the Porsche on the street.

  He walked up to the driver’s door and said, “Okay, you’re ready to back out. Just keep the wheel straight and you should be fine. Ready?”

  Davy shook his head. “That space is so small, man. I don’t have any room over there on the right.”

  Skip stood on the running board of the truck and checked the right side mirror. He guessed that Davy had a least three feet of room on the other side, but in the mirror it looked nothing like that. “You’ve got plenty. There’s space over there.”

  “It looks like six inches, if that.”

  “All right, I’ll go over there. If you get close to Roxy’s car, I’ll signal you to stop. Will that work?”

  Davy nodded. He took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  Skip went and stood next to Roxy’s car and motioned for Davy to put the truck into reverse. The truck inched backward, generally in a straight line. Davy veered a little and with his view of his own car blocked, Skip’s anxiety grew. He realized how Davy felt, this thing seemed bigger now. It would do a lot of damage if it hit something. He’d rather be on the other side of the truck so he could keep an eye on the Porsche. But the laws of physics were immutable. There were several feet between Roxy’s car and the moving van, which meant, logically, there had to be at least two feet on the other side. No, his baby was fine.

  Suddenly, the truck jerked to a stop and Davy began yelling. Skip couldn’t make out the words over the truck’s engine noise, but Davy was flipping out. Skip ran to the passenger door and jumped up
onto the running board. Davy was hanging out the driver’s window, desperately pulling on the door release. “I’m locked in. Goddammit! I’m locked in! Your car!” Skip jumped from the running board and ran to the driver’s side of the truck, where Davy hung half-in, half-out of the window screaming. “Stop! No! Get away from there!”

  Skip stood, his mouth agape, staring at where the Porsche had been. His heart did flip flops in his chest. “Who? Who stole my car?”

  “That guy, the one with the car we had blocked in. He just ran out of the apartment and took it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Roxy

  I stood at the front door of the apartment, searching in all directions. Clinton had already disappeared. I hurried back into the room and locked the door behind me. Two steps away I turned around and checked the lock, then stood and stared at the mess. CD cases littered the floor, one of the legs on the coffee table tilted oddly to one side, and Marjorie didn’t look much better as she sat, eyes glazed, next to it.

  Marjorie’s phlegmy cough echoed in the silence of the apartment. When she’d finished coughing, she said, “Who the hell was that?”

  “That was the man who kidnapped me and my dad. He was the leader. Jimmy and Stella were his helpers.” I reached out and helped Marjorie to her feet.

  She wobbled a bit and winced. “My leg. Oh, that hurts.” She took a couple of tentative steps. “I think I’ll be okay.” She hobbled in a circle around the pile of CD cases.

  “Careful,” I said.

  Marjorie looked down at the paddle in my hands. “I don’t think you need that anymore.”

  I hadn’t even realized that I still clutched my weapon. She was right, the guy was gone, but I felt a weird reluctance to relinquish it. “Sorry.” A question formed in my mind as I hung the paddle in its spot on the wall. I glanced at the door. “Marjorie, that was the leader—or whatever he’s called. He isn’t the one who rented the other apartment?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “If it wasn’t him, who was it?”

  “Martin Sylvester. Nice guy, tall. Good looking.”

  I glanced around. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “No need to be sorry, you were defending yourself. Hey, you were defending me, too. Where’d you learn that anyway?”

  “My mother started me on martial arts training when I was six. She said it would help my confidence and maybe keep me alive if I ever got into real trouble.”

  Marjorie eased herself into a kitchen table chair. “My granddaughter’s ten. I’m going to talk to my daughter about that. I’ve never seen a woman be able to—you know.”

  I stared down at the pile of cases littering the floor as she sat in the chair and coughed. Somewhere in here was the one the kidnapper had wanted. Despite her obnoxious hacking, I was starting to like Marjorie. I squatted next to the largest pile of CDs and glanced up at her. “The training’s not cheap, but it can—but it can make the difference.” And how it had.

  She nodded. “I’ll help her out with the cost if she needs it. What are you looking for?”

  “He was after a CD. Black. Silver writing. Want to help me look?”

  She hoisted herself up. “Sure.” The pain on her face told me she wouldn’t be doing any crawling around on the floor—or dancing at her party.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. This is going to ruin your reunion.”

  “Oh, crap. That’s right. I forgot all about it. I came up to tell you I had to leave. Let’s call the cops. I’ll feel better once they’re around.”

  “No cops!”

  Her brow furrowed and her shoulders heaved as her breathing grew heavier. “Oh, man, do I hurt.” She sat back down. “Why don’t you want the police involved?”

  “What are they going to do? The kidnapping is over. This is just some guy breaking and entering. You think they’re going to care about some guy who wants a CD?”

  Marjorie surveyed the floor. “What if he comes back?”

  “The cops won’t care. Besides, imagine all the paperwork.”

  “But you could give them a description of the guy.”

  “What about the publicity? That won’t be good for you. You’ll have everyone moving out because the building isn’t safe.”

  Marjorie winced as she rubbed her leg. “Were you the debate captain, too? All right. After your run in with them yesterday I guess I can’t blame you. You stopped the guy—nothing was taken. Okay, no cops.”

  The adrenaline was washing out of my system as fast as water flowing out of an overfilled pond. I wanted to find that CD before my energy level died and my emotions kicked in. “Thanks.” I knelt and began sorting through cases. “Look, if you want to go to your reunion, I can close up here after I’m done.”

  She stared at the mess, the glazed-over look still in her eyes. “I don’t know. I was so looking forward to that, but now—after this.”

  I stood and went to her, rested my hand on her shoulder. “You don’t get a 40th reunion every day. You should go.” Besides, I wanted more time to snoop.

  She motioned around her. “You don’t get one of these every day either.”

  I pulled a chair next to hers. “Look, I feel responsible for this. If I hadn’t been here, he would have found what he wanted and would’ve been gone just like that.” I snapped my fingers for effect. “Nobody would have been the wiser.” As much as I hated to say it, I followed that up with, “I’ll take care of this mess and lock the place up. Don’t you worry about it.”

  Worry, followed by another shot of pain, returned to her face. “I can’t do much here.”

  It took a bit more coaxing and I thought I had her primed to leave when she made up her mind. She was going to supervise. Unfortunately, I was the one who gave in. Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone. Besides, Marjorie wanted to help and it seemed like there was nothing I could do to talk her out of it. We put a chair next to where the CD tower belonged. Next, we had to decide on a methodology for sorting the CDs. Mine would have been to go with the tried-and-true efficiency method of first in the hand, first on the rack. But Marjorie would have nothing to do with that. She maintained that Stella had been an organized person. From what I’d seen at work, this was a stretch, but I went along. We ended up agreeing—actually, Marjorie decided, I acquiesced—to put the collection in alphabetic order by artist, then by year of production.

  I righted the CD tower and put it in its proper place, then plunked down cross-legged on the floor and began sorting through the cases. Stella wasn’t going to care what order these were in now that she was gone, but obviously it meant a lot to Marjorie. I began sorting by artist. Talk about tedious. All I really wanted to do was find the one the kidnapper had been after. Instead, I’d become Stella’s CD librarian.

  I examined each case before I handed it to Marjorie, who put it into a slot in the tower. It took about twenty minutes to get the mess cleaned up, but when we were done, we had five cases that resembled the one I’d seen the kidnapper holding.

  I said, “Damn. Which one was it? I couldn’t read the title.”

  Marjorie shook her head. “I was too busy being frightened out of my wits and trying to avoid killing myself on that damn coffee table.”

  “How did he know which case he needed?” The five cases all had a black background and silver lettering. “I wonder if someone told him to look for a specific CD.”

  “Probably. I wonder . . .” Marjorie’s voice trailed off.

  “You think it could be Jimmy?”

  Marjorie worked her jaw from side to side. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “That means he hooked up with the kidnapper.” I shivered at the thought of the two of them coming after me again. I went to the door and checked the lock.

  “What are you doing?”

  The rationale seemed silly since we’d already been sitting here for twenty minutes sorting through CDs. “I just wanted to check it.”

  “I check my loc
ks about every half hour. I know the damned things are locked, but it just makes me feel better to be positive.”

  “I’ve never been paranoid before.” The words sounded hollow to me because they were. I’d spent twenty years being haunted by a memory. No more.

  “So you’re not as tough as you let on.”

  “I feel better now that I’ve checked it.” My phone rang. I glanced at the display. “Hey.”

  His voice sounded shaky. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m in Stella’s with the landlord.”

  There was a pause, then he said, “I’ll call you back.”

  She winced at the abrupt cutoff.

  Marjorie asked, “Who was that?”

  “Um—a guy I’m working with on this case.”

  Marjorie’s eyes twinkled. “A special guy?”

  I felt my eyes roll nearly to the back of my head. Why did everyone assume there was something between us? I summoned my best business tone, but it sounded fake, even to me. “He’s supposed to be interviewing tenants. But, it’s been, like, half an hour. That’s a long time. It shouldn’t have taken him anywhere near that long. Maybe I should go down and see what’s up?”

  Marjorie nodded and gave me a little smile.

  “What?”

  “Don’t lie to yourself, Roxy. You’re too young.”

  I set my jaw and pushed the hair away from my face. “I’m sure he’s okay. Let’s check those CDs.”

  Marjorie and I sat at the kitchen table. Each of us took a case and opened it. Marjorie screwed up her face and said, “Wish I knew what I was looking for.”

  “Ditto.” That wasn’t going to stop me. I examined each cover, front and back. Nothing unusual. Country. I opened each case. Again, there was nothing unusual until I got to the fourth CD. A note fell out and drifted to the floor as I opened it. I leaned forward to pick up the note and realized that I, too, hurt from my encounter with the kidnapper. “You’re right. I’m not as tough as I used to be.”

  “You’re too young to have aches and pains.”