Trouble in Tallahassee (Familiar Legacy Book 3) Page 9

  “No. Just at the law school this morning.”

  “Phillip drove her home from the law school, but she’s not answering her cell.” Delphine frowned. “Probably taking a beauty nap or getting a manicure.”

  As Abby watched, Delphine’s frown turned to a grimace, tension radiating off her. “Phillip wants her to go with me to the airport to pick up Layla’s parents.”

  Oh, please, Abby thought, don’t ask me to go with you.

  “I’ve got enough work—real work—to do around here without having to play fetch for Phillip, but—” Delphine suddenly stopped, as if she realized she was talking to an associate in a way she should not be doing.

  “Oh the hell with it. I don’t need her anyway.” With that, Delphine stomped off down the hallway in her three-inch heels.

  Abby let out a whoosh of relief. But as she stepped inside the shelter of her office, she flashed back to Jennifer at her door last night, desperate to see Layla. Maybe she’d better call Detective Kelly and tell him about that visit after all—even if it meant breaking her promise to Layla not to tell.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The view from the back of Detective Rizzo’s unmarked car is illustrative as he whips his vehicle in and out of traffic, but not nearly as much as listening to his patter. There’s another man riding with him. Judging from their exchanges, this younger biped is Rizzo’s partner, someone called Lucas. In contrast to Rizzo, Lucas appears to be a decent chap, while Rizzo is peevish. Still, it was considerate of the grumpy detective to have left his window down when he parked in Abby’s driveway so that I could hop in after he let me out her door. What better way to learn what the bobbies are up to in their search for Layla than riding along with them?

  “I’m telling you Victor’s our man.” Rizzo says this with an angry conviction, though it sounds daft to me. “That business of his getting kicked out of the Navy ought to tell us something about his character. And he was in that basement for no good reason with an access card he stole out of Layla’s office.”

  Kicked out of the Navy? I ease forward to hear better, but am careful not to let them see me.

  “Navy thing doesn’t mean much,” Lucas says. “He wasn’t convicted of anything. He just resigned.”

  “Why’s a career man resign before his twenty years? Especially when he’s been accused of—” Rizzo slams on his brakes and pulls the car into a fire lane and parks. “Do you see what I see?”

  I look where Rizzo is pointing. Down the street from where Rizzo has parked is an alley.

  Not just any alley, but the one behind Abby’s law firm. More precisely, the alley where Layla was mugged.

  And, stooped over, nosing around in that very same alley, is Victor.

  “Speak of the devil.” Rizzo sounds proud of himself. I must concede the man has excellent eyesight, especially for a biped of his age.

  “Let me go sneak up on him. See what he’s up to.” Lucas cracks the car door and waits for Rizzo to answer.

  “Yeah, you do that. I’m going inside and have another go at that Emmett fellow. He knows more than he’s saying.” Rizzo gets out, followed by Lucas.

  Once outside the vehicle, Rizzo locks the doors. To my dismay, all of the windows are up. It’s easy enough for me to unlock the car with a click of the button, but I cannot physically push the doors open. I need a biped for that.

  Putting aside my concern about the heavy doors, I explore inside the vehicle. Too bad each man took his notebook with him, but they might have left something else of interest behind.

  I search, sniff, and scratch about, but find nothing that even hints at what they might know about Victor or Layla. And now I’m trapped inside their car. And it’s getting hot.

  Fine kettle of fish, this is.

  Victor stepped cautiously around in the alley behind the law office building.

  He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, but he didn’t believe for one half second that Layla’s mugging was random coincidence. Somehow he doubted Rizzo and that other fellow, Lucas Kelly, would bother to double check, especially since Rizzo acted convinced that Victor was the guilty party in Layla’s disappearance.

  Bending down in the dirt and debris in the alley, he poked through the trash with his fingers, thinking as he did that someone should clean the area if law firm employees used the alley.

  “They say a crook always returns to the scene of the crime.”

  Victor’s head popped up. How in the world had anyone been able to sneak up on him like that?

  Lucas Kelly stood in the shadows, staring right at Victor with the slight trace of a grin.

  Ignoring the possibility that Lucas was suggesting Victor was the criminal returning to the spot, Victor nodded. “I had that thought myself.”

  Lucas took a step closer to Victor on his soft-tread shoes. As if reading Victor’s mind, he said, “Hush Puppies and a dad who worked the night shift. I’ve learned to walk as quiet as a Mohican. I can sneak up on anybody.”

  “You got me.” Victor held up his hands in mock surrender.

  “Just so you know, we aren’t stupid.” Lucas pressed close to Victor, still studying his face. “We’ve got surveillance in this alley. And we’ve been questioning the homeless, looking for a man with a hoodie, bad hygiene, and cat scratches on his face.”

  Victor nodded, assessing Lucas’ tone of voice. Neutral, not friendly but not hostile like Rizzo. He decided to push it. “What’d you find out about the mugger? Was anyone able to identify him? Did you check at the homeless shelter or the Lincoln Center to see if they’d treated anyone with cat scratches?”

  “You were a Master at Arms in the Navy, I understand, and you’ve done your own fair share of detective work,” Lucas said. “So you know not to mess with another agency’s active investigation. Too many cooks spoil the soup, and all that.”

  “I can’t just do nothing. If Layla’s still alive, she’s wounded. Probably badly from all the blood at the scene. And she needs her insulin. Time is critical.”

  “Yes, we understand that. Time is always critical in a kidnapping.” When Victor didn’t reply, Lucas said, “You’re a civilian now. Go home. Let us do our job.”

  Victor stepped away from the back door and headed toward his truck. He didn’t need to turn around to know Lucas was watching him. But if Lucas thought he was going home and do nothing, the man wasn’t much of a detective.

  To my relief, I see Victor trotting down the sidewalk, heading toward the police car. Okay, this is going to be fun. With a quick leap, and a press of the right switch, I turn the siren on. Victor spins around to stare at the vehicle—along with several others. I jump up on the top of the headrest, press my face against the window, and scratch the glass.

  For once Victor understands exactly what to do. In a cracking good move, he races to the car, tries the door, finds it’s unlocked—thanks to my earlier actions—and opens it. I hop out, give him a very hasty leg rub, and take off at a fast clip. I doubt Rizzo and Kelly will be amused about the siren, so I think it best that Victor and I both be gone in case the detectives become mad as a bag of wet ferrets over the whole escapade.

  Victor and Trouble raced down the sidewalk, away from the empty patrol car. The siren was still blaring, and no doubt Rizzo and Lucas would be hot-footing it back to their vehicle. Victor turned a corner and ducked down a narrow side street, Trouble keeping pace beside him. The cat looked supremely proud of himself, and Victor laughed.

  “So that’s where you’ve been.” Victor didn’t pause to pet the cat as he hurried. He didn’t want Lucas accusing him of turning on the siren, and no one would believe the cat did it. Victor didn’t quite believe that himself.

  Once they were out of range of the detectives, Victor bent down and petted Trouble. “You know I looked all over the neighborhood for you. And there you were, cruising with Rizzo and Kelly.” He should be fussing at the cat, but instead he found he was glad for Trouble’s company. And he was still amazed and amused at Trouble fo
r somehow turning the siren on.

  Trouble purred, and looked at Victor with something like a grin.

  “All right, buddy, you’re with me now, but let me tell Abby I’ve got you safe and sound. Then into my house for you until Abby can come get you. No more wandering around.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Just a quick visit. Nothing important.” Abby didn’t drop her gaze as Detective Kelly studied her with an intense, cross-examination glare. She had called him about Jennifer’s visit, and he had rushed right over to the law firm.

  “Did you hear what they said? If not, how do you know it wasn’t important?” The detective pushed an inch closer to Abby, invading her personal space to the point she stepped back from him.

  “I think you’d have to ask Jennifer. I really don’t know.” Abby stopped retreating and squared her shoulders, but all she wanted to do was go home and develop a plan for finding Layla—with Victor’s help, of course.

  “When exactly was this visit?” The man wasn’t letting go.

  Abby frowned, trying to remember exactly. “Around 8:30 or so.”

  “The night Layla disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  Detective Kelly narrowed his eyes as if puzzling through the information or preparing for further cross-examination. “And you didn’t tell me about this because…why?”

  Abby gave up any pretense of having just forgotten. “I promised Layla I wouldn’t tell.”

  The detective scribbled something in his notebook and stared once more at Abby. “Anything else you forgot…or promised not to tell?”

  “No. Really. Detective Kelly, that’s all.” Abby felt embarrassed and ashamed. She’d broken a promise, and she’d probably made herself look more like a suspect than before.

  “Call me Lucas.” He tapped his pen against the notebook, a slight frown on his face. “You wouldn’t happen to know Layla’s password on Facebook? Or her email?”

  “Of course not.” Abby frowned. Hadn’t she mentioned several times that she and Layla were not close friends?

  The office door opened a crack. “Abby?”

  She recognized the sweet voice of Phillip’s administrative assistant, Mary, a lovely older woman with a gentle grandmotherly look and voice, but with a memory just short of Guinness Book of Records.

  Before Abby even answered the woman, Mary said—in a tone of voice clearly an order—“Mr. Draper wants to see you. Right now.”

  Sighing, Abby nodded at Lucas.

  “We’re done, for now,” the detective said.

  A moment later, Abby followed Mary down the hallway to Phillip’s palatial office with its classic men’s club decor. Abby stopped the moment her feet hit the edge of the thick Persian rug. She caught herself just before she gasped at Phillip. His head was bowed, his tie was askew, and his shoulders slumped. When Mary announced Abby—as if Phillip somehow hadn’t heard them come in—he looked up. His face was drawn and his eyes raw.

  Abby had never seen him look anything but polished and assured.

  “What am I going to do?” He looked at Abby as if sincerely seeking an answer, but she didn’t understand the question.

  Mary pulled a carafe out of the small refrigerator and poured Phillip a glass of something clear. She didn’t offer Abby any. Mineral water or vodka, the liquid could have been either.

  Phillip sipped.

  Mary turned to Abby and explained. “Miss Freemont’s parents were scheduled to fly in today, but something came up at his office.” She paused, her expression a thinly disguised look of disgust. “They’re not coming.”

  “They’re not coming to—” Abby stopped before she said something rude about Layla’s parents. Victor had told her that Layla hadn’t been close to either her mother or father. But still, this was their daughter and she’d been kidnapped or worse.

  “Thank you, Mary.” Phillip set his glass down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—a gesture Abby couldn’t imagine her refined, appearance-conscious employer making.

  Taking the hint, Mary left, closing the door gently behind her.

  “I need your help.” Phillip looked at Abby with desperation in his eyes. “Since you and Layla are such close friends, perhaps she told you something, anything that might help us find her.” His voice had a slight quiver in it.

  Abby shook her head. “Layla and I weren’t that close. It was just that a week or two in a hotel while they fixed her apartment sounded so unpleasant and I had a spare bedroom. It was just a spur of the moment thing that I invited her to—”

  “So, she didn’t confide in you?”

  “No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t know anything helpful about Layla. I didn’t even know she came from a wealthy family until this morning.”

  Phillip leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  Abby waited.

  Just as it seemed Phillip had forgotten she was there, he spoke. “Her father and I were friends growing up and as young men. We’re still friends. As boys, both of us were….” He paused, opened his eyes, and sipped again from the clear liquid. “Well, you aren’t interested in my boyhood reminiscences.”

  Actually, Abby was. This was all news to her that Layla’s father and Phillip had a strong connection. Perhaps that explained why Layla had—what was Delphine’s word?—a “lock” on being hired as an associate. Emmett had never had a chance of being hired if that was the case.

  But another thought pushed its way into Abby’s head. Victor said Abby’s father was in the oil industry in Houston. Phillip and Abby were working with Phillip’s oil company client on something about offshore drilling. Even Pam Bondi and the governor had mentioned something about offshore oil drilling.

  Had Layla learned something she wasn’t supposed to know about oil and gas exploration in Florida? Could it in some way be connected to her father’s business?

  “I’d like to hear about you and Layla’s family,” Abby said, trying to sound kind-hearted instead of rabidly curious.

  Phillip gave her a feeble smile. She could see he was trying to pull himself together into the polished, controlled man she’d always known.

  “Sometime when this ordeal is over, you, Layla, Jennifer, and I will all go for a quiet dinner and I’ll regale you all with stories of her father and me when we were just wild young fellows.” He hesitated, as if reluctant to speak further.

  “I’d like that, sir.”

  Phillip murmured, “Layla is my goddaughter. I can’t let anything happen to her.”

  “Your goddaughter?” Abby tried to stifle the surprise in her voice.

  “I shouldn’t have told you that. I need to keep that a secret. You understand? The others would think there is favoritism involved with her position at the firm.” Phillip gave Abby a penetrating look.

  “Yes sir, it’s our secret.”

  “Good then. I’ll trust you.” Once more Phillip sipped from the clear liquid Mary had poured him. “As you know, Jennifer and I were only blessed with our sons. Layla’s become like a real daughter to me. And…sadly, her own parents didn’t care much about her. They preferred their boys. They found her…defective. Because of the diabetes, and they —” Phillip stopped talking as he surely realized he shouldn’t be telling all this to Abby. He folded his arms across his chest and gave her a curt look.

  Abby wanted to ask more, but she read his body language and kept quiet.

  “Well now, if you don’t know anything that will help us find Layla, I guess we better get back to work.” Phillip’s voice had lost its earlier quiver.

  Realizing he was dismissing her, Abby said her goodbyes and left.

  As she stood in the hallway outside his door, she wondered what the odds were of finding any of Layla’s files. If she only had Layla’s laptop, but the police had succeeded in getting a warrant and seizing it.

  Ah, but Layla saved everything to her pink flash drives. She’d been compulsive about it. All Abby had to do was find Layla’s stash of flash drives.

  How h
ard could that be?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Victor drove cautiously. It would never do to get caught in a traffic stop reeking of beer and dressed like a homeless man, especially since he’d stuffed his best switchblade in his pocket for protection. He was satisfied with his disguise—dirty yard-work clothes and an old, smelly hoodie, topped off by splashing beer over his undershirt and squishing enough in his mouth that he smelled like he’d been doing some serious drinking. He’d stuffed his other pocket with ten dollar bills.

  Of course, the dang cat had escaped while Victor had been perfecting his homeless person disguise, but the animal had proven he was street savvy. No doubt by now, Trouble was back at Abby’s lapping up cream. Victor vowed not to worry about Trouble, but to find the man who had mugged Layla.

  Once near the homeless shelter in west Tallahassee, Victor parked several blocks away so he could wander among the raggedy men and women who roamed the streets near the shelter. The first man he approached was sitting on a curb, drinking from a soft drink can, and watching Victor approach with slitted, hostile eyes.

  “Hey.” Victor reminded himself to slur his words. “I’m …looking for a…my buddy. Got himself scratched up by a cat, real bad. I owe him some money.”

  “Your buddy got a name?”

  “Yeah, but I…we were drinking. I forget.”

  The man on the curb snorted and waved Victor off.

  Victor approached several others, improving his questions as he went. But no one on the street knew anything about a homeless man with cat scratches on his face. Not ready to quit, Victor walked inside the shelter. Trying to blend in, he asked several others residents of the shelter. He even gave away a few of the tens, only to get answers that were useless.