Sneak And Rescue

Glancing behind her, Sam could see a narrow pathway along the wall. The row of cars were parked far enough out to let her make a dash. The driver would have to back up or get out of his car to reach her. She spun and started to run while fishing frantically in her handbag for her cell. Damn piece of junk probably wouldn’t work in the underground garage, but anything was worth a try.

The old car’s brakes squealed in protest as her would-be killer tromped them, then fired several more shots. Sam was grateful he wasn’t an aficionado of the target range as she ducked and dodged. Chunks of concrete exploded around her like land mines in Tora Bora. He slammed his Olds into reverse. She could hear the transmission groan in protest, but didn’t take time to watch as its driver followed her. At least backing up in the confines of the dimly lit garage forced him to take his eyes off her.

She made it to the cover of a heavy concrete support beam surrounded by cars. “Let’s see you ram this, sucker,” she said, crouching down behind the steel-reinforced barrier. She pressed 911 on the phone. Useless. She might have known. Resisting the urge to throw the cell at her attacker, she took a deep breath and held her .38 Smith &Wesson Chief’s Special with steady hands. She had only four shots left. Once those were gone, so was Sam.

Her buddy didn’t disappoint. He pulled the Olds almost in line with the beam, then slipped out the driver’s side. She could hear the door creak as it opened and see the changing pattern of light through the broken window. Using an old trick she’d learned as a beat cop in one of the city’s less than secure neighborhoods, Sam knelt down and peered beneath the cars, watching for feet.

Nothing like a broken ankle or leg to slow a guy down. She caught a blur of movement, but this one was smart enough to use the rear wheel as cover before she could line up her shot at the awkward angle. She heard some moans and curses from inside the car and recognized it as the distinct local blend known as Spanglish. The one she’d hit was still alive but not happy.

“Looks as if we have what you might call a Cuban standoff, doesn’t it, pally?” she asked. “Better get your partner to an E.R. before somebody calls the cops.”

Her suggestion was ignored. Then he put one foot outside the wheel. Sam took careful aim and fired a single shot at the weathered denim pant leg. Another string of hybrid oaths in a Spanish-English combo.

“Bingo,” she muttered as he hopped back to the car. From the quick leap he made, she knew she’d only nicked him, but that was good enough. The door slammed shut and the Olds took off like a rocket, careening around the corner and vanishing up the exit ramp, a lot faster than the old geezer in the ’Vette. She still only made out the first four digits on the dirty plate. Deliberately covered with mud? Probably.

Sam stood up and leaned against the cool concrete for a minute, collecting herself. Whoever had hired those gunsels meant business. Although she and Matt had made some nasty enemies in the local Russian Mafia, she doubted these two turkeys were connected. One or both of them might have .38 slugs in them—or at least a couple of real nasty gashes, maybe the first shooter a broken arm or hand. That meant they needed medical help of some kind.

She replaced the gun in her handbag and took out the Via Spiga pumps. Shoving the shoes over her mangled stockings, she sprinted toward the elevator to the first floor where her cell would work, then placed a call to Patowski to explain what had just transpired.

Pat was his usual gracious self. “Let me get this straight. You want me to run a check on all Miami E.R. s for a couple of Cubano shooters who you never even got a look at? Driving a rag wagon Olds, for which you only got a partial plate? These supposed Cubanos may have .38 bullet wounds? Hell, Sam, in the last hour you know how many shootings there’ve been in Little Havana alone? And how common .38s are? Talk about your needle in a haystack—why not ask me to pick fly crap out of black pepper?”

Sam sighed, glancing at her watch. “You’re right, Pat. It’s a long shot, but the one in the car I may have hit pretty solid. He wasn’t shooting when the driver got out.”

“What’s this all about? More mob stuff?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Just run the plate and see what you come up with, okay?”

After a martyred sigh, Patowski agreed. He owed her and they both knew it. She and Matt had helped him and his pals at the FBI break a case involving multiple homicides and stop a Russian mafia turf war extending from Miami to New York.

When she ended the call, she could see some of the well-dressed executive types in the exclusive office building giving her the eye. Sam could imagine what she must look like, but one glance at her watch and she also knew she didn’t have time to repair the damage.

She brushed at the dust and oil on her formerly immaculate suit with an oath. For once in her miserable life, couldn’t she look cool and professional? Muttering, “At least black doesn’t show grease stains,” she headed to the elevator and punched the up button.

A woman in a designer suit with a matching briefcase entered the elevator with her, practically stepping sideways through the wide door. She deliberately stood at the opposite side of the car as it began its ascent. “If you think I’m Typhoid Mary, you could’ve waited for the next car,” Sam couldn’t resist saying. Then she sneezed. Her fellow traveler quickly punched a second button and got off at the next floor. Sam rode to the fifteenth.

The elite offices of Winchester, Grayson & Kent were furnished in posh Danish modern, the redwood tones made more subtle by pale gray and mauve upholstery. Tall black urns filled with bamboo and those funny curlicues of decorative wood stood like sentinels flanking the massive reception desk. Abstract watercolors were strategically placed on the pearl-white walls, all of them by one artist, probably Scandinavian and most certainly expensive.

Several men in custom tailored suits occupied chairs that overlooked a solid glass wall with a splendid view of the Intracoastal. One glanced up from his Barron’s long enough to give her a sniff of distaste, then went back to the stock market reports. A woman with glossy blond hair sleeked into a severe French twist sat behind the reception desk. She obviously didn’t like Sam’s appearance, either.

“May I help you?” she said in a tone reserved for a vagrant who’d come to inquire if he could use the executive washroom.

“Sam Ballanger to see Mr. Winchester. I have an appointment.”

Looking highly dubious, the blonde checked the computer screen at her side to confirm. “That was for 4:00 p.m. It’s now—”

“Look, Blondie, I can tell time. I was unavoidably detained by a couple of bozos who tried to run me down, then shoot me in your parking deck. Next time that happens to you, let’s see if that fancy ‘do’of yours doesn’t get a little messed up, okay?”

Ms. Chandler, as the nameplate on the desk indicated, glared disbelievingly before she caught herself and forced a smile as genuine as the mauve silk floral arrangement beside her computer. “I’ll see if Mr. Winchester is still available. Please have a seat.”

But only if I promise not to get grease on the upholstery. Sam walked over to the window and looked at the stunning vista, all blue skies, gold sand and green palm trees in the distance. Miami Beach with its Art Deco pastels beckoned from across the water, a faded diva ringed by garish new high-rise condos. Her kind of town. She’d known it since her first trip here when she was thirteen and stowed away in the sleeper of Uncle Dec’s rig. He’d been mad enough to chew nails when he’d discovered her at a rest stop in North Carolina. Turned the air blue with his cussing, she recalled fondly. By that time it had been too far to turn back without sacrificing a big payload in Miami, so he’d called her frantic parents and reassured them he’d take good care of his favorite niece. She’d been grounded for the rest of her freshman year, but it had been worth it.

Her reminiscences were interrupted by Ms. Chandler. “Mr. Winchester will see you now,” she said. “Please follow me.”

The snotty receptionist looked as if she was trying to digest a bamboo stalk from one of those urns out front and walked as if another stalk was jammed where the Florida sun never shines. They moved down a long hall, footsteps muffled by two-inch-thick Karastan carpeting in a shade Sam would’ve described as Attica gray. Winchester’s nameplate was inscribed in polished brass on the door of the corner office. Of course. He was the senior partner, after all.

Chandler knocked deferentially and was bidden to enter. She stood with her back pressed to the door, careful not to let Sam touch her when she walked inside. A tall silver-haired man with the narrow face and long, straight nose of a blue blood stood behind an immense walnut desk devoid of everything but a leather blotter and a set of Montblanc pens.

“Ms. Ballanger?” He did not smile.

“Mr. Winchester?” she shot back. “Pardon my appearance—and tardiness.” She paused to glance back at the Chandler dame, who was slowly closing the door behind her. Like to eavesdrop, don’t you, honey? When Sam heard the muffled sound of the latch click, she continued, “I was involved in an altercation in your parking deck. Can you think of any reason someone would try to stop me from taking your case?”

He blinked. “Certainly not. What do you mean by ‘an altercation’?”

So much for well-bred manners. He still didn’t offer her a seat. Even Chandler had done that much. She took one anyway, directly in front of him and he reluctantly lowered himself into the custom leather chair behind the desk. She gave him a quick rundown on the attack in the downstairs garage, studying his response. Hard to tell if he believed her, or even cared.

“It could’ve been related to another investigation, but I’d appreciate it if you’d have the building security check their video cams at the exits between three fifty-five and four-ten or so.”

Winchester shook his head ever so slightly. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. If you report this…even to the authorities, I’ll be dragged into something which has nothing to do with me. In fact—”

Sam put up her hand. “Okay, just a thought. The Olds is probably being fed into a compactor as we speak anyway.” She decided to omit her little conversation with Patowski since she didn’t want to lose what promised to be a lucrative job. She’d dealt with uptight types like Winchester before and knew how to handle them. As for a couple of dozen wrecked cars in the bowels of the building, well, let their insurance companies handle that.

“Who do you want me to retrieve and why?” she asked.

He hesitated, then replied, “Jay did recommend you highly.” Although he still appeared skeptical, he continued, “My son, Farley, is missing. The boy probably thinks he’s on a secret mission for the Confederation of Planets, but my guess is that he’s still somewhere on Earth—with my stolen Jaguar and his friend Elvis.”

“Elvis? Excuse me?” Sam couldn’t help the incredulous expression on her face.

“Elvis P. Scruggs. And don’t ask what the P stands for,” he snapped. “My son is only seventeen and has been under the care of Dr. Reese Reicht for the past five years.”

Sam waited for him to give her the rest of the story. He drummed a set of well-manicured fingers on the desk, as if debating. “Dr. Reicht?” she prompted.

“He’s a psychiatrist. My son sees flying saucers, spaceships, even imagines he’s part of some kind of intergalactic war.” He pursed his thin lips in a tight line, then scoffed angrily. “A secret agent for the Confederation of Planets.” At her blank look, he explained, “Farley is a…a Space Quest fanatic. Has been ever since he was a boy.”

“You mean he’s a movie buff—loves sci-fi films and television shows?” Weird, but not as weird as a pal named Elvis Presley Scruggs.

“I’m afraid Farley’s situation isn’t quite as simple as being an avid fan.” Winchester grimaced. The drumming fingers stilled when he realized she noticed the agitated movement.

Sam bet if he had any papers on his desk they’d be aligned in perfectly straight rows. She’d lay a lot better than even money that everything on his computer was organized in perfectly ordered folders and every single item could be pulled up in an instant. And he had a double backup system.

“Farley has been known to use drugs—and I am not speaking of the medications Dr. Reicht prescribes.”

“That could be serious. When did he disappear?”

Winchester gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sometime in the past two days. I’ve been out of town on business. I returned late yesterday. The housekeeper informed me Farley hadn’t slept in his bed for the past two nights.”

A real concerned parent here. Doesn’t want the cops. No idea how long his kid’s been missing. “Does his mother have any idea when he took off?”

“I regret to say his mother passed away five years ago.”

The loss of a pet guppy would elicit more reaction from most people so she didn’t waste time offering condolences. “Any idea where he went? Is this Scruggs with him?”

“Yes. Farley’s been spending time with that illiterate cracker for weeks, perhaps longer.” The vagueness again irritated her as he continued, “Scruggs is from somewhere in the panhandle. Oh, I tried to put a stop to it, but my work requires me to be out of town frequently and my son has always been…difficult.”

With a dad like you he oughta be impossible. “You think Scruggs is Farley’s drug connection?”

“I don’t know. I do know that he’s a thief and I discovered quite recently that he may have spent some time in prison. In any case, Rogers, my chauffeur, informed me that Scruggs took my vintage Jaguar. Since Farley was in the passenger seat, he didn’t question it. That was Monday afternoon. When I was going over my personal records this morning, I found twenty thousand dollars had been withdrawn from a savings account to which my son has access.”

“You’re sure Farley took it?”

“Yes, and I’m equally sure Scruggs encouraged him, but I won’t press charges. I simply want you to recover my money, my car and my son. Quietly. No headlines. Do you think you can do that, Ms. Ballanger?” He glanced at his Rolex, indicating the interview was over.

“I’ll do my best to bring back your son, Mr. Winchester. But I will need a few names and numbers—his doctor, your housekeeper and chauffeur, the registration info on the Jag.”

He nodded, turning to the console at the side of his desk and pressing a button. “My personal assistant will be happy to furnish whatever you need.”

Sam stood up. Winchester didn’t bother. Neither did he offer to shake hands. “About my fee—”

“Ms. Ettinger will take care of that, as well. Send a bill.” With that he swiveled his chair around and opened his computer.

She’d been dismissed like a chambermaid in an English melodrama! “Where do I find Ms. Ettinger?” Sam said to the back of his head.

He didn’t turn around. “She’ll be along.”

As if on cue the door opened. A wraith-thin woman with gray hair pulled into a painfully tight knot on top of her head and the worst overbite Sam had ever seen, said, “Please follow me, Ms. Ballanger.” She didn’t smile, either.

The kid may be into Space Quest, but his old man and this staff could play in zombie movies.

Chapter 3

Ms. Ettinger furnished Sam with every name and address she requested, sniffing with obvious distaste when she came to Scruggs, whose last known domicile was in a trailer park in Liberty City. Sam had the distinct impression the old harridan imagined that she lived in a trailer, too…or under a rock.

Grinning cheerfully when she took the proffered fat retainer check from the older woman’s bony fingers, Sam couldn’t resist saying, “It’s been fun, Ettie. Let’s do lunch sometime.”

“Ettie’s” glasses slipped to the end of her thin nose when she jerked her head back at the moniker. Adjusting them, she peered over the tops with squinty eyes and said, “You may exit the premises that way,” pointing to a narrow door at the end of the hallway.

I’ll be lucky if it doesn’t open on an elevator shaft with a fifteen-story drop. Sam turned the knob cautiously and saw the door led to a dimly lit hallway near the service elevators used by cleaning staff. Considering how scruffy she looked, Sam was not surprised Upton hadn’t wanted her offending W, G & K’s elite patrons again.

Maybe she should use the service elevator. That had been Ettie’s clear intent. No way. She rounded the corner to the main hallway where the light was better and perused the directory. “Hmm, the shrink has an office a couple of floors up,” she murmured to herself, wondering if he was available. Maybe she’d hit the ladies’ room downstairs first and repair what she could before tackling a guy with an M.D. and Ph.D. behind his name. Half the alphabet, Roman numerals—did all rich guys have to be such pains in the ass?

Matt had come from money but he didn’t want any part of it. And she’d fallen for him. But he was part of the club when it came to the pain part. All that lovely money just going to waste in Aunt Claudia’s bank and he’d extracted a promise from Sam that she’d forgo the loot to become his wife. “He caught me in a weak moment,” she reminded herself as she rode the elevator to the main level. A weak moment all right…in bed.

Just remembering that interlude brought a silly grin to her face. She quashed it and pushed open the door marked Ladies. Once she eased up to a mirror in the washroom and inspected the damage she knew why everyone was treating her like a leper. Her hair was standing up in clumps, her suit was grease stained and ripped, and one cheek was bleeding slightly from where sharp pieces of concrete had grazed her when that goon had shot at her and hit the wall.

She wet a bunch of paper towels and set to work cleaning herself up, then went into one of the classy marble stalls and stripped off the snagged panty hose, jamming her bare feet back into the Via Spiga pumps. One knee was skinned and a dandy bruise on her shin had already begun to discolor. Oh, well. She glanced at her watch. It was late, but if she was lucky, the doc would still be in his office treating patients. Shrinks didn’t usually keep nine-to-five office hours.

Luck was with her. The receptionist, a plain middle-aged woman with a sweet smile, informed her that Dr. Reicht was with a patient at present, but would see her shortly. Upton Winchester must have called ahead. Reicht’s suite was not as large as W, G & K’s, but it still reeked of money. The smaller reception room was furnished with heavy oak chairs. To keep potentially violent patients from busting them up if they went off their meds?

The decor was all done in neutral tones of beige, tan and white as if a deliberate attempt had been made to offend no one. A wide array of magazines lay fanned across a massive coffee table. Ignoring the enticement of reading about the lifestyles of the rich and famous, she checked over her meager notes on Farley Winchester.

Age seventeen. High IQ, low self-esteem and a probable drug habit, if his father was to be believed. She’d been provided with a photo, taken several months ago, according to the harridan. He looked like a geeky kid, the kind the jocks made fun of in high school. Tall, skinny, bad complexion, even horn-rimmed glasses, for Pete’s sake! And he was dressed in some kind of weird getup with insignias on the shirt and a wide leather belt. It looked like cheap polyester fabric accessorized with plastic.

Not exactly a preppie, are you, kiddo?

Was it a “Spacer” uniform? Hopefully the good doc could give her more info before she set out to snatch the kid from Elvis’s clutches. Her perusal of the photo was interrupted when a short, stocky man opened the inner door and said, “Ms. Ballanger?”

Reicht had a fringe of graying tan hair ringing his oversize head. Sam guessed that was a requirement to hold the brains for acquiring all those initials after his name. There were pouches the size of Pony Express saddlebags under his eyes and he possessed jowls that would be the envy of an English bulldog. Reicht’s eyes were obscured by a hedge of eyebrows that flowed uninterrupted across his forehead. He wore a rumpled tweed jacket and even had a meerschaum pipe protruding from one pocket. Jeez, talk about a walking stereotype!

Sam stood up and offered her hand, which he shook heartily, grinning as he ushered her into his sanctum. “Please hold my calls, Heidi,” he said to the secretary.

The office was as cluttered as its owner, with piles of folders and loose papers scattered everywhere. She could identify with the unholy mess, but there was something about him that gave her a hinky vibe. “I assume your friend Mr. Winchester told you why I’m here,” Sam said as he offered her a seat.

“Indeed, he did. Most regrettable, most regrettable…” He seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment, then continued. “Farley requires close supervision and regular medication to keep in touch with reality.”

“I don’t think Mr. Winchester pays his housekeeper for babysitting while he’s out of town.”

“Mr. Winchester and I have agreed that Farley might do well in a private clinic, but such things take time to arrange. Of course, he’s been hospitalized on several occasions in the past….” Again his voice trailed away.

“Didn’t do any good?” she suggested.

“Well, you do understand about physician-patient confidentiality, Ms. Ballanger?”

“Yes, professional ethics and all. Like attorney-client, priest-confessor or P.I.-employer. Since his father’s green-lighted me to find him, I need to know what I’m dealing with before I retrieve him.”

The doctor sighed. “Farley has been delusional since childhood. Approaching his majority, he’s shown no improvement. In fact, he’s become worse.”

“You mean the Spacie thing? How long’s he been a Space Quest fan?” she asked.

“For as long as I’ve been treating him. Nearly…eight years. All he’s ever wanted to discuss during our sessions is that show and its characters. It’s his reality and the real world has ceased to exist for him…if it ever did.”

“His father said he tripped on drugs.”

Reicht nodded. “Cocaine, heroin, even methamphetamines.”

“What—no Drano? I used to be a paramedic and we never like handling guys high on meth. Any idea who his dealer is?”

“Farley has made some…less than appropriate friends recently. I suspect one in particular.”

“Elvis Scruggs?”

The giant caterpillar of an eyebrow crinkled when Reicht frowned. “Yes. When one is young, disturbed and wealthy, one can be victimized.”

“Do you think Scruggs kidnapped him?”

The doctor shook his head. “Probably not. The boy would go along with any harebrained scheme Scruggs proposed, I’m certain. Farley’s highly suggestible, particularly when he’s high on illegal drugs.”

“Suggestible to cleaning out one of his daddy’s bank accounts?”

“If someone like this Elvis Scruggs urged him to do it, yes. You understand why you must bring him home. I’ll see that he goes back on proper medication and provide supervision. In fact—” he began rooting around on his desk, pulling out a sheaf of papers with a grunt of satisfaction “—I have the forms here for Homeside. It’s a fine facility. I’m on the staff,” he added as if that guaranteed it.

“Will his father agree to commit him?” she asked.

“Of course. We’ve been discussing it for several weeks. Oh, we don’t call it ‘commitment’ any longer. The term is too…pejorative. Homeside is just as the name implies—a home away from home for troubled individuals.”

That might explain why the kid took off. It sounded to Sam as if his father’s house and the loony bin would hold about equal appeal. Still, the poor kid couldn’t be allowed to run around the country dressed like a sci-fi movie extra high on meth, with an ex-con chauffeuring him while he fleeced him.