I approached the gurney from the side and gazed down at my friend. Mrs. Bromley's eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and regular. "How peaceful she looks," I whispered to Officer Tracey. "I can't believe that I put her life in danger like that."
Mrs. Bromley's eyes fluttered open; she turned her head in my direction and smiled. "Hi," she said groggily.
"Hi yourself," I said. "How are you, Naddie?" Mrs. Bromley usually wore a headband, but sometime during all the excitement, it had disappeared. I smoothed the snow-white hair back from where it tumbled over her forehead.
"I could use a drink," she said.
I filled a blue plastic cup with water from the sink and supported her head with my hand while she drank it. When she was done, Naddie relaxed against the pillow, looked up and seemed to notice my bandage for the first time. "What happened to you?"
I touched my bandage gingerly. "A bump on the head. A few stitches." I smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'll be just fine. How about you?"
"They just read the X rays," she said. "My arm's broken in two places. They're going to set it. Ouch! I'm really looking forward to that! And I'll have to wear a cast."
"Casts come in a full range of designer colors, I hear."
Mrs. Bromley's face clouded over. "But my art show? It's next week!"
"Don't worry, Naddie. I'll help you with your show. You just relax, now. Everything's going to be fine."
"Do you ladies feel up to answering a few questions?" Mike Tracey extracted a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open to a blank page. When we agreed, he disappeared into the hallway, returning a few moments later, dragging a couple of chairs.
After we were comfortably seated, Mrs. Bromley launched with surprising enthusiasm into her version of our recent adventure, while I offered my two cents' worth about Jablonsky, Pottorff, and Steele. We had begun to describe the house where we'd been held prisoner when Paul burst into the cubicle, with Dennis only a few steps behind.
"My God, Hannah!" Paul fell to his knees in front of my chair as if he were about to propose marriage. He touched my bandage with his fingers, took my face gently in his hands and kissed me softly on the mouth. "What on earth am I going to do with you?"
"Why didn't you call me?" Dennis's scowl said it all.
"I'm always bothering you, Dennis. I thought you'd be proud of me. I called 911, like a good girl." I grinned, to let him know I was teasing. "I would have called you next," I added, "but they took away my cell phone."
"Who's 'they'?" Paul asked.
Mike Tracey leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, notebook still in hand. "We picked up the gardener and a guy named Pottorff when they tried to escape after the crash. Pottorff, it turns out, works for a fellow named Jablonsky. We've picked him up, too. They're so busy pointing fingers at each other it'll be a while before we get it all sorted out."
Dennis turned to me again. "Do you have any idea where you were being held?"
"Yes and no," I said. "I think it may have been Jablonsky's house in Fishing Creek Farm, but there's a way we can find out for sure." I looked around the cubicle for my purse but couldn't see it. Where the hell was it? I'd had it with me in the van, I knew that for sure. Had it gotten lost in the accident? Was it still in the ambulance? Had it been stolen? The warm pride I had been feeling about my coup with the GPS was quickly turning to ice cold panic. "My purse! It's gone!"
Mike Tracey laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry. It's probably back in your cubicle," he said. "I'll take a look."
It seemed like hours, but it was only minutes before Tracey returned with my purse. "Whew!" I took it from his outstretched hand and crushed it to my chest. "If I'd lost it-"
I handed the purse to Paul. "Look in the bottom," I instructed.
His brow furrowed, Paul set the purse on the foot of Mrs. Bromley's gurney, opened it and plunged in with both hands. He came out holding the GPS, still carefully cushioned in bubble wrap. I prayed that it hadn't been damaged in the accident.
"What does this have to do with anything?" Paul asked as he unwrapped the device.
"They may have taken away my cell phone, but they missed your GPS. I hit the M.O.B. button, Paul."
Like my husband, Connie and Dennis were sailors. I watched, amused, as a slow smile spread across Dennis's face when Paul explained to Officer Tracey what the M.O.B. meant.
Lieutenant Dennis Rutherford grinned at his colleague. "Hey, Mike. Ever applied for a search warrant on the basis of a latitude and longitude coordinate?"
They knew where the house was, of course. They'd looked it up.
Mrs. Bromley, the GPS, and I had given them plenty of probable cause, but I was needed to identify the place, positively, once they got inside.
With Paul's GPS mounted on the dashboard, Paul and I rode in the backseat of Tracey's cruiser from our house on Prince George to College Avenue. We turned left on College and right on Rowe, heading due west out of town, rather than east toward Fishing Creek Farm. Well, I thought sourly, that eliminates that creep Jablonsky.
When we made a right turn on Melvin, my heart began to race. At the end of Melvin was the community of Wardour, one of Annapolis's oldest high-rent neighborhoods. But before we reached the Wardour roundabout, Tracey surprised me by steering his cruiser left on Claude. At the end of Claude he stopped; we'd reached a dead end.
Directly in front of us, on a heavily wooded and beautifully landscaped waterfront lot, stood a modern, four-story home built entirely of brick. Tracey pulled into the drive and the GPS began to beep. "We have arrived," Tracey said. I didn't need the GPS or Mike Tracey to tell me that I was staring at a brand new three-car garage.
"Who does the house belong to?" I croaked.
"Somebody you know," Dennis said, turning in his seat to face me. "Mr. C. Alexander Steele, president and CEO of ViatiPro."
Why was I not surprised?
Surveying the house in front of him, Tracey whistled. "The business of death must be good." He opened the door of his cruiser, leaned out and motioned to an unmarked vehicle that had pulled into the driveway just behind us.
"Who-"I began.
"Evidence technicians," he replied.
Mike Tracey himself led the charge up the sidewalk. We stood behind him, like a tag team of Jehovah's Witnesses, while he rang the bell.
A middle-aged Filipina dressed as a maid answered the door. "Mistah Steele, he no home," she replied to Tracey's question. She stared, wide-eyed, first at us and then his badge, before backing away, bobbing at the waist. "I go get Missy Steele, okay? You wait."
A few seconds later a willowy woman dressed in a white tank top, black capris, and leather flip-flops came to the door. "I'm Claudia Steele. How may I help you, officer?" Diamond studs twinkled in her ears.
Tracey introduced the lot of us, then handed her the search warrant. "We're here to search the premises," he told her. "For evidence of a kidnapping."
If Claudia Steele was surprised, she didn't show it. While we waited, jockeying for position on the narrow landing, Mrs. Steele flipped quickly through the pages of the warrant. "I'm sure everything's in order here, officer, but I'm confident that you're making a huge mistake."
"We'd tike to begin in the basement," Tracey said.
"Be my guest." She turned. "Please, follow me."
How could she be so cool, so collected? Naddie and I had trashed the place. Did she think we wouldn't notice? She moved ahead of us with such poise and confidence that I was almost ready to believe I'd dreamed up the whole thing, until we stepped into the family room. There was the fireplace, the bar, the humongous TV, and, bless her little painted toes, the Naked Maya.
"This is it," I said firmly. "This is definitely the place."