An arm slipped around Jessie’s waist and jerked her off her feet, nearly knocking the wind out of her. Then the Sub-urban’s rear passenger door was yanked open and Jessie was thrown inside as if she were nothing more than a sack of cement.
“Ladies first,” he said.
She fell hard across the seat and the door slammed shut, nearly clipping her left foot. The engine idled beneath her, but there was nothing soothing about it.
Mr. Ponytail climbed behind the wheel, popped the gearshift into Drive. “Get your clothes off.”
Jessie tried to catch her breath. “W-what?”
“Get your fucking clothes off, now,” he said, then hit the gas pedal.
Jessie stared at the ugly black gun in his hand, knowing he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Too stunned to cry, she reached a trembling hand to her regulation Bellanova Prep sweater and fingered the top button.
All control was lost now, relinquished to the stranger behind the wheel.
Help me, Daddy.
Please help me.
15
"Any luck with Nemo?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Uh-oh, somebody’s grumpy.”
Donovan had learned a long time ago that there wasn’t much point in trying to hide his moods from Rachel. She’d been the team’s investigative analyst for over two years now and could read him like a polygraph.
“Grumpy’s an understatement,” he said as he trudged into his office and shrugged out of his coat. “I’ve got half a mind to gather up my toys and go home.”
Rachel Wu stood in front of an open file cabinet near his desk, trying to jam a bulky manila folder into its proper slot in the drawer. She was young, Chinese-American, and had a fresh-scrubbed beauty that Donovan never got tired of admiring. More than once he’d thought about asking her out to dinner. Unfortunately, a pesky little thing called office protocol kept him in check.
He draped his coat over the back of his chair and sat. The wall next to his desk was a shrine to the evil that was Alexander Gunderson, a compilation of newspaper clippings, police reports, and mug shots that chronicled a life of crime and social anarchy. An eight-by-ten of Gunderson’s face was riddled with tiny holes. A tight circle of darts adorned the spot between his eyes.
Anyone entering Donovan’s office would immediately realize he had a serious obsession. He sometimes joked that he was a stalker with a badge, Gunderson’s Number One Fan. Now if only he could tie the bastard to a bed, grab a sledgehammer, and hobble his ankles…
Donovan glanced at the mess atop his desk and sighed. More police reports, a stack of aging newspapers neatly folded to the crossword puzzle, a couple of federal procedure manuals. Amidst the chaos, a smiling, freckle-faced six-year-old stared up at him from a framed photograph. It was an old one, but one of his favorites.
His daughter, Jessie. In better times.
Despite their problems, Donovan thought of her as his salvation. His only lifeline to a normal world. A line that, unfortunately, was a little frayed at the moment.
Which reminded him. He checked his watch, looked up at Rachel. “Any word from the wayward one?”
“Not so far.”
“She’s running late.”
Rachel shoved the file drawer shut. “They always run late at this age.”
“Oh? You read that in the manual?”
“I’m studying up, just in case.” Rachel was divorced and childless. Donovan had no idea what kept her from taking another dive into the deep end of the pool, but it certainly had nothing to do with looks or personality. Maybe she was simply as puzzled by relationships as he was. Whatever the case, she was a good sounding board for his parental insecurities.
He glanced at Jessie’s photo again. “You think I’ll ever see the day she actually wants to spend time with me?”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky any of us do.”
Donovan shook his head and smiled as she gathered up an armload of files and headed for the door. Shifting his attention to the collage on the wall, he stood up, grabbed the cluster of darts adorning Gunderson’s forehead, and pulled them free. “Tell me something, Rache.”
She turned, waited. She looked good framed in the doorway like that, her straight, dark hair parted at the side and cut just below the shoulder. Her brown eyes were always bright and clear and attentive. And her body…
Donovan moved around to the far side of his desk, putting some distance between himself and Gunderson’s photo. “What do you see when you look at that face?”
Rachel frowned. “Besides the bad complexion? Killer. Sociopath. Someone who enjoys inflicting pain. He’s what my grandmother would call a si futt lou.”
“Si futt lou?”
“An asshole,” she said flatly. “Reminds me of my ex.”
Donovan knew he was supposed to laugh, but instead returned his attention to the dark malevolence of Gunderson’s stare. “Sometimes I look into those eyes and it’s like he’s crawled inside my brain: ‘Better come at me with everything you’ve got, hotshot, ’cause I’ll take you down the very first chance I get.’ ” He looked back at Rachel. “Live with that long enough and you’re bound to be grumpy, too.”
Rachel gave him one of her patented smirks. As always, it looked great on her. “Jack, I mean this in the nicest possible way: have you ever considered therapy?”
With that, she spun on her heels and walked to her desk outside. Donovan watched her go, thinking thoughts he knew he shouldn’t be thinking, then turned and fired a dart toward that well-worn spot between Gunderson’s eyebrows.
Bull’s-eye.
A.J. Mosley had never met a cup of coffee he didn’t like, and today’s blend was particularly satisfying. A buddy from the Federal Public Defender’s Office in Honolulu had shipped him an entire case of Kona dry-processed beans that produced a full-bodied cup of perfection that went down oh-so-smooth, without even a hint of bitterness.
A.J. had sampled just about any bean you could think of, from the mild sweetness of the Sul de Minas crop, to the heavy acidity found only in Zimbabwe’s Chipinge region. He didn’t consider himself a connoisseur by any means-even a stale cup would do in a pinch-but he certainly knew what he liked. If it started with a C and ended with double E, chances were pretty good it would bring a smile to his face.
He was savoring a much needed second cup when the telephone on his desk bleeped.
He snatched up the receiver. “A.J.”
It was one of the division operators. “Got a call from a Ron Stallard at Chicago PD. Want me to transfer it?”
“Send it on over.”
After a couple of clicks, Stallard was on the line. A.J. had sent him a bag of the Kona and figured this was a thank-you call. “Hey, big guy, am I a god or what?”
“I’ll leave that to you and your flock to figure out. Got a situation you’ll definitely be interested in.”
“Yeah?” A.J. said. “What’s going on?”
“You sitting down?” Stallard’s voice was tight with excitement and A.J. knew this was something big.
“Come on, Ron, spit it out.”
“Strap your balls on, buddy boy. Guess which weasel just popped his head out of the hole?”
16
Half a city block was cordoned off. Chicago PD had been generous with the yellow tape, steering the press and any curious bystanders clear of the immediate area. A couple of police choppers hovered high overhead, keeping the sky clear of pesky newscopters and their telephoto lenses.
The only pedestrians who remained were the handful off the street who had directly witnessed the incident, and the busload of passengers who now waited on the sidewalk as police technicians scurried about both in and outside the bus.
Donovan and A.J. pulled in next to one of the half dozen patrol cars parked just outside the tape. Al Cleveland, a member of Donovan’s team, was there to greet them as they climbed out.