Chapter 22
T
oots swerved to avoid a head-on collision in the parking lot of the bank.
Phil placed a hand on her arm. “Careful. We don't want to get in an accident. We've got to find Abby,” he said, gasping.
“Sorry. I just . . . I want this over with as soon as possible.” Toots pulled into the first empty parking space she saw. “You want to come inside with me?” she asked as she shifted the red sports car into park.
“I wouldn't be here if I didn't. Stop worrying about what I want, Toots. Let's find your girl. I'm not going anywhere.” He grabbed the Louis Vuitton luggage off the floor of the car.
Without another word between them, they entered the People's Bank, where the president personally escorted them to his office. “Ms. Loudenberry, I am terribly sorry for your daughter. Henry Whitmore explained your circumstances.” A large black duffel bag stood out like a sore thumb in the center of his desk. “Take this and good luck.”
Phil grabbed the duffel bag and stuffed it inside the designer luggage. Within minutes, they were in the red Thunderbird and heading directly toward the beach.
Once they arrived at the Santa Monica Pier, Toots parked in the public parking lot, just as Goebel had instructed. There was still plenty of time before they were all to meet at Bubba Gump's. Toots's nerves felt as if they were tied up in knots.
The two of them sat in the car, the silence thick between them. She had never been in this kind of predicament and didn't have a clue if she should even try to have a conversation with Phil.
“We can't drag this luggage around just yet. You okay staying in the car for a while? I could go find us a soda or something,” Phil suggested.
Toots realized that she hadn't had anything to eat or drink since their abbreviated stay at Phil's condo on Estero Island, and she hadn't had a cigarette since she'd lit up in Abby's office. “Yes. I could use something to drink. And a smoke, too.” She removed her cigarettes from her purse, opened the door, and got out of the cramped car. She lit up, not caring that Phil was a cardiologist, not caring if her lungs were as black as the tires on her car. All she really cared about was Abby.
How in the hell had this happened? Had the authorities put forth much effort when that scumbag disappeared two years ago? The world was not that big, she knew. She'd been around it a time or two. When Chris and Henry Whitmore stopped that ten-million-dollar wire transfer, had she unknowingly placed a bull's-eye on her daughter's head? She should have hired Goebel to track down the son of a bitch. Had she known then what she knew now, he wouldn't be running around, abducting innocent women.
But, as the old saying goes, hindsight is twenty-twenty.
Phil returned with two Styrofoam cups. “I thought you might like an iced tea. I brought extra sugar if you want some. I can't drink the stuff unless it's syrupy sweet.”
Just one more thing they had in common.
“I don't drink anything unless it's laced with sugar.” She took the packets from him, dumping them in her cup. She used the straw to mix up the sugar crystals in the bottom of the cup. She took a long drink. “Thanks.”
Toots leaned against the car, gazing at the scene before her. The afternoon sun had burned off the morning mist, for which the Santa Monica Bay was so well known. Somehow Toots remembered that the locals referred to the foggy beach days as May Gray and June Gloom. That day was definitely gloomy, the sun having yet to make an appearance on this side of the city, even though it had been bright and sunny at the beach house. Everything around her seemed so normal. In the distance, she could see the old Ferris wheel, the bright colors distinguishable even at this distance. The pier jutted out into the ocean and was loaded with fishermen casting their poles in hopes of catching something they could brag about later.
Leaning on the car beside her, Phil said, “I'll give you five bucks for your thoughts.”
“You can have them for free.” Toots lit another cigarette and took a long pull of her iced tea. “It's my fault Abby's been abducted, or kidnapped, or whatever the hell they call it these days. I could have stopped this had I been more grounded. I've always had a nose for the tabloids. Abby has, too. That's why she chose this field as a career. I'm sure it doesn't sound like much of a career to you, but we have always loved Hollywood, and the behind-the-scenes gossip. When Abby was younger, she always talked about coming to Hollywood. For a while, I thought she might have had aspirations of becoming an actress, but she squelched that idea real fast. She was never a prissy girl.”
Toots stopped. She couldn't take it any longer. Tears gushed down her face, and she didn't care what Phil Becker thought. She'd just caught herself referring to her daughter in the past tense.
No! No! No! Abby is fine. If she isn't, Sophie would know and would have told me so.
She trusted Sophie's psychic abilities as much as she trusted herself.
Phil produced a handkerchief from out of nowhere. He stood in front of her and gently blotted her eyes, wiping the salty tears from her cheeks. “Abby's going to be just fine, Toots, especially with you watching out for her. Plus Goebel. I realize I just met the man, but if I were in trouble, I'd want him to have my back. And that Secret Service guy, too. You're doing everything humanly possible, sweets.”
Sweets?
Had she heard him correctly?
Toots took the hankie from Phil and blew her nose, then folded it in half and used the other side to blot her eyes. “You're a nice man, Phil Becker.”
“Not always,” he said.
“I find that hard to believe. You just flew an abandoned dachshund to Florida for back surgery, and you hopped on a plane and flew across the country with me. Plus, you haven't said one nasty word about my love of tabloids. That all fits under the ânice' category to me. And this is just our first date,” Toots said. “Or is it our second date, which got so rudely interrupted?” Without waiting for an answer, she glanced at her watch and saw that there was still plenty of time. If she could just get through the next few hours without losing it, she might be okay. Well, no, she would not be okay until her daughter was found safe and sound.
Phil casually draped an arm around her neck as they stood side by side. Seagulls flew high in the air, then dipped low in the water, searching for their next meal. Waves crashed against the shore, and a slight wind had picked up. Without any sunlight, the afternoon air held a trace of a chill. If the situation were different, he would take her in his arms and kiss her, but he knew that it wasn't the right time. When her daughter was found safely, then . . . Well, he knew exactly what he wanted to do.
“I'm about to tell you something that I've never told a single, solitary soul in the world,” he said out of the blue.
“Wait. If it's something really juicy, I'll probably tell Sophia. We tell one another almost everything,” Toots said. She felt a tiny bit better just because Phil was standing next to her. This wasn't a good sign given her history with men, but just then she really didn't care. She needed all the moral support she could find.
Phil laughed. “I'll let you determine if it's juicy or not. Being single and of a certain age, well, let's just say I don't have women lining up on Friday nights, waiting to make me dinner. So”âhe stopped, scratched the top of his head, then went onâ“unless I'm at the hospital on Friday nights, I usually spend the evening reading every single tabloid printed. Hell, I've even started to read the ones online. So there. You tell me if that's juicy or not.”
Toots wanted to kiss him. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and plaster her lips directly on his.
Oh, hell,
she thought.
You only live once.
Without giving it a second thought, Toots turned to face Phil Becker, then placed her hands on either side of his face and brought his mouth to hers.
Sparks flew, blood pounded in her head, her heart felt as though it were about to explode from her chest, and her knees trembled so badly, she wasn't sure she could stand. She hadn't experienced a kiss like this since . . . ever. Knowing she had to break away from him before they made complete and total fools of themselves for all to see, Toots stepped out of Phil's arms and instantly felt a fleeting sense of loss.
“Hot damn!” Phil said as he released her.
“Yeah. Hot damn,” Toots parroted. Tears filled her eyes again. “Phil, I . . . this is . . . Shit, I don't know what to say.” That moment was definitely not the time to fall in love. Her daughter was missing, her life was hanging in the balance, albeit
figuratively,
and here she was, making out on the beach. Maybe she was in the early stages of dementia, because there couldn't be a more inopportune time for something like that to happen.
“Then don't say anything,” he said as he took her in his arms again.
Chapter 23
R
odwell Archibald Godfrey, or Rag, as he was used to being addressed and referred to by this bitch and her coworkers at
The Informer,
paced the small living area. He'd been living in the two-dollar dump for four weeks. Steve, the owner of Steve's Pawnshop, had given him a deal on the place because they'd done business together in the past. When Rag had spent every dime he had gambling in Vegas, Steve had always been there to lend him a few bucks for whatever piece of junk he dragged in. Looking at the place through the eyes of his captive, he truly saw what a shit hole it was. There he was, living on top of a pawnshop, about to pawn Miss Simpson off to some big-deal corporation for ten million bucks. The irony of the situation made him smile.
He was actually surprised and, of course, delighted that in this day and age, LAT Enterprise, the faceless corporation that apparently had no face-to-face relationship with Abby Simpson, hadn't told him to go to hell. No reporter was worth that kind of money. Hell, no editor in chief was worth that kind of money. He knew damn well that he would not have paid a single dime if one of his employees had been taken for ransom.
He felt her eyes as she followed his every move. “What? You think I'm enjoying this?” Actually, he was, but he didn't want Abby to know. “Don't bother answering. Oops, I forgot, you can't talk. Your big mouth is taped shut. It's hard, huh?”
He looked at her and could see the venom that shot from her eyes. For a brief second, he almost felt a pang of pity for her, but it passed as quickly as it came. Rag was not the kind to feel pity for anyone other than himself.
He looked at the cheap gold watch on his wrist. It would be one of the first things he replaced once he had all those millions. Every time he looked at it, he thought about that cheap old floozy in Venezuela. He'd milked her out of most of her husband's fortune, and she'd given him this watch on their one-year anniversary.
The cheap bitch.
She had enough money. She could've bought him a Rolex.
Once he had that money, he would get himself a Patek Philippe World Time Automatic Platinum. Only the very best from then on. He wouldn't have to depend on anyone ever again. He'd travel the world, stay in the finest hotels, eat delicacies, and if the urge hit him, and it did often, he would buy beautiful women who would do anything he wanted.
He looked at the watch again, only this time, he actually looked at the time. He had less than two hours until he hit the lottery. Rag walked across the living room to the one lone window. Scanning the parking lot and the surrounding street, he didn't see anything or anyone that looked out of place.
Wait.
What was that?
Pushing his face against the grimy window for a better look, he couldn't help but notice an extraordinarily shiny black Lexus, with tinted windows to match, parked in front of the shit hole across the street. Who would own a fifty-thousand-dollar car and live in a dump that even the rats had vacated? The neighborhood hadn't improved much since the Watts riots took place all those years ago.
He squinted.
Wait a minute. This doesn't look right. What if it's the police, and they've figured out where I am?
No, they weren't that smart. And if they were, they weren't so dumb that they would use a car that would stand out the way the Lexus did.
Besides, he'd covered his tracks. Hell, no one knew what he looked like anymore. He barely recognized himself. He'd watch that car, just to be on the safe side. He'd come this far, and the last thing he wanted was someone trying to horn in on his master plan.
Enough.
Time to start phase three.
Abby watched Rag as he paced back and forth, stopping to stare out the window. Something was about to take place. Nervous energy flowed from him like water from a spigot.
Had Goebel found her already?
No, it was too soon. Abby wasn't sure if her mother or Goebel had picked up on her clue when she'd been forced to read Rag's demands. She had stared out the window for so long, and something had kept nagging at her. That was when she saw the world-famous Watts Towers in the distance, and she tried to tell them that she was in South Central LA.
Abby passed the time by imagining what she would do to this slimy excuse for a human being. First, she would yank those kinky hair plugs out of his head one at a time, but maybe not. She wasn't sure where they came from. It really looked like pubic hair. Abby grinned in spite of the tape covering her mouth. Knowing Rag, he would've shopped around for a bargain, and it was quite obvious he'd found it. She wondered if it was donor hair, or leftovers from a Brazilian wax job. She couldn't imagine a better home for all those lost hairs, considering he was a true dickhead.
After that, she'd go for public humiliation. Her episode in the bathroom would be mild compared to what she'd inflict on him. Maybe she could have Sophie perform a séance and literally scare the shit out of him. He was terrified of the unknown and had always avoided talking about the afterlife or anything related to the paranormal.
What a work of art,
Abby thought. And to think, he was once her boss.
Chester. She would sic Chester on him, and he'd chew his ass like a piece of gum. She smiled again, but this time she felt the tape as it tugged against her skin. She was quickly reminded of the seriousness of her situation. This wasn't a game. This was real, and she'd already been hurt. But it was nice to think about what she would do, if she could.
“Well, sweet cheeks, as they say, parting is such sweet sorrow, and it's time for me to get the hell out of Dodge.” He walked over to the metal chair; Abby followed him with her eyes. “Relax. I'm just going to drag you to that closet over there.” He nodded toward a door that she hadn't paid much attention to.
Until then. Garbled sounds came from her.
“Shut up and quit your whining. As long as Ms. LAT Enterprise doesn't try to double-cross me, you'll be home in time to catch the ten o'clock news. Maybe you can use this as your lead story. I can see it all now, âPrevious Owner Found and Lost.' I'm going to buy a private island for myself. Maybe I'll even build a casino. You, of all people, know how much I like to gamble. It doesn't really matter. I won't be here, and you will.”
He opened the closet door, then tilted the chair on its two back legs and slid it through the doorway. Once he had repositioned the chair, he spoke. “Yes, yes, I know it's hot in there. I'm sweating, too. Now I'm going to close this door, and you . . . Well, try to relax. Someone will find you, I'm sure. And if they don't, Mr. Steve will notice the stench eventually. Sooner or later.” He slammed the door shut and, for added measure, took another metal chair and shoved it beneath the doorknob.
Abby Simpson wasn't going anywhere.
He removed the red envelope from the kitchen drawer, checking the numbers one last time. He wouldn't want them to transfer all those pretty millions to the wrong account. Then he walked through the three-room dump one last time to gather his things. In the bedroom, he grabbed the leather satchel emblazoned with his initials. He stuffed a few dirty shirts and a change of underwear inside. In the bathroom, he took his razor and toothbrush and jammed them in, too.
Well, that was it. Once again, he was running from Los Angeles. But this time, he wasn't leaving empty-handed. This time, he'd leave a very,
very
rich man.
Not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention to himself, he left through the back door and used the fire exit, which would take him to an alley behind the pawnshop, where he'd parked his newly purchased wheels from a “buy here, pay here” car lot. His hair plugs had cost more than the car did. It didn't matter, because he was planning on ditching the piece of garbage at the airport. The repo man would find it soon enough, and it would be up for sale once again.
Inside the car, he adjusted the rearview mirror. When he saw that the black Lexus hadn't moved, a trickle of alarm caused him to press down hard on the accelerator. He made a quick turn onto South Central Avenue, then another onto West Century Boulevard, which would lead him to the Pacific Coast Highway. From there, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to the pier, a quick walk to the Marine Science Center, and with luck, he'd be on his way to the airport no later than six o'clock. He'd hired a private jet to take him to an undisclosed destination.
Money talks and bullshit walks,
he thought as he drove along the coast. He'd spent most of his life looking at others from the sidelines. The rich, the famous. It was his turn now. He didn't care about the famous, but the rich, well, he figured that spoke for itself.
Traffic was still relatively light as the five o'clock rush hour was still an hour and a half away. He would arrive at the pier in plenty of time to plant his little envelope and blend in with the crowd. He might even have a bite to eat while he waited for the money to be dropped off.
That would complete phase three of the plan to change his life from Rag's to riches.