Don't Stop Me Page 3

  Chapter 6

  Badra had last been seen at Creekside Coffeehouse in Bellevue, Washington, according to the brief report Vic had been texted from Tom, the private detective he hired for all manner of company business. The light-haired detective reminded him at times of a beach bum, and he dressed the part, with longish hair that dangled in his face. The man worked on his own schedule, but he was effective. Vic had used him many times in the past to find out everything he could about people and head off whatever problems were coming his way before they could become a train wreck.

  He had to take a second and think how many years it had been since he had last seen her. Had she changed? Had she aged, or did she look any different? She’d been so young, slim, with long, sleek dark hair and eyes filled with so much mischief and personality—and those dimples. He’d loved everything about her.

  His phone beeped twice with two messages from Tish Campbell, one a voicemail and one a text that if he didn’t call her back, she was running with the story she had. In other words, she’d print bullshit that was far from the truth but enough to cause a pinch in his cash flow and an aggravation in his business, bringing up questions he didn’t want to answer and shoving a spotlight so far up his ass he’d have to go to ground for a time.

  “Fuck,” he muttered as he took one last look at the office complex, which was almost completed. He watched as his foreman pulled away and noted security locking the gate. He touched the handle on his black Dodge Charger and slid behind the wheel, the leather crackling. He shut his eyes a second to think, then tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

  This was about setting the record straight, and he would, too, right after he talked with Badra. Maybe she had some idea that this was now all coming up. They’d been just kids, doing stupid kid stuff, when a single moment in time blew everything up in their faces, altering their futures. What happened had nearly crushed him.

  He turned the key as his phoned buzzed again, and he switched over to the Bluetooth, seeing it was Natalie calling. “Why are you still at work?” he said as he pulled away. “Go home. That’s an order.”

  “I got a message from the private investigation firm. The guy who handles things for you, Tom, well, he has to tend to some family emergency or something, so his partner is going to handle things in his place, but that won’t be until tomorrow.” There was tapping in the background, and Vic took in the traffic ahead before taking a right onto the freeway.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “No. Do you want me to do anything else here? I can do some inquiries on the name for you? Make some calls?”

  He stared at the screen in the dash for a second. Even though he couldn’t see Natalie, he felt the sting from his alarm bells ringing. She never overstepped, but right now she was crossing over into his personal life, and he didn’t like it one bit.

  “No, you’re done. Go home.” He disconnected the phone and took a breath, knowing he’d been rude. She had to know she was lucky he hadn’t fired her. She knew not to push, so why was she doing so now?

  Vic was tired, and it took him a second after pulling through the stone gate at the foot of his property to register the small blue SUV parked by the door. He jammed his foot on the brake and swore again under his breath. Who was here? His head went to one of the women he’d brought home, but he’d made it clear to each of them that there would be nothing more, ever, and that they were never to come back.

  Maybe that was why he gunned the pedal and the gas, pulling up beside the SUV a little too fast. He slammed the brakes, hearing the tires squeal, smelling the burning rubber. He shoved it in park and was out of the vehicle, expecting someone to be standing there, but it was just an empty car, a few years old.

  “Hello?” he called out as he walked around the truck, not seeing anyone. He was up the steps and opening his front door, walking inside, and he heard voices coming from his living room. As soon as he turned the corner, he felt his stomach bottom out.

  Tish was sitting on his cream sectional, a mug of coffee in her hand, her legs crossed. Nora was standing there in front of her. He stepped into the room and said not a word as both women turned his way.

  “Mr. McCabe, I let in—”

  “Tish Campbell, a reporter,” he snapped.

  Nora’s eyes widened in shock, and she glanced back to Tish, whose face appeared to flush. “You said you were his sister! I’m so sorry, sir. I’d never have allowed a reporter in.” She was stuttering, and he’d never seen her this flustered.

  “It’s fine, Nora. Ms. Campbell is persistent. I’ll handle it from here,” he said. Nora seemed to want to add something, but instead she gave him a brisk nod and left the room. Another employee he’d have to deal with. Maybe he was being a fool again, trusting the people he allowed in his life.

  He took in Tish Campbell again as she rested the coffee mug on his large square coffee table. She did it so slowly, and he noted the way she seemed to be figuring out what way to spin this. He found himself taking another step into the room and across to the bar behind her. He needed a drink, something to steady his nerves. She finally stood and faced him, the sectional between them, as he lifted a decanter and a simple short glass and poured a splash of scotch.

  “I’m sorry to have lied to your maid.”

  “Housekeeper,” he said before she could say anything else.

  “I see. Mr. McCabe, as I said—”

  “How did you find me?” He didn’t miss the startled look on the reporter’s face. Maybe she hadn’t expected him to question her. “My house, where I live?” he added when she said nothing.

  “I did a search, and—”

  “I’m not listed anywhere,” he said. This house wasn’t even in his name. It was rented to a shell corporation. He’d made sure of that.

  “Let’s just say I’m really good at what I do,” she tossed back at him with some attitude.

  He had to smile, because he knew when he was being lied to. “Not buying it, but let’s dispense with all this back and forth. What do you want from me?”

  “I told you already. I’m running a story and would like your quote. Since you’ve ignored my calls and texts, I thought I would show you the story that’ll run tomorrow morning and see if you’d still like to stay quiet.” She reached into a bag over her shoulder and pulled out two sheets of paper. There was hesitation for a second before she stepped over to him and held out the papers.

  He stared at the headline, Billionaire contractor with ties to terrorism? The article also had a recent photo of him and his current Salem project. He knew doors would close, contracts would dry up, all because as a stupid kid, he’d stolen the wrong car.

  Chapter 7

  “These are lies. How did you come up with this tale? You say there’s a source, who?” he asked, setting his glass on the bar top, his eyes flashing with a fire she knew he carefully hid. “Don’t give me this crap about your First Amendment right.”

  “I received a call, and I cannot reveal my source,” Tish said—a source who’d been adamant she needed to dig more into Vic McCabe, Badra Walker, and everything they’d set in motion that fateful day. That was after Tish had started looking for any dirt she could find on the man. She just hadn’t expected these doubts and his unwillingness to set the record straight. People always lied, had stories and tried to push their own versions, but not Vic McCabe. No, he was outright pissed at her.

  He made a rude noise, a rough chuckle, and glanced away. She realized he was considering something. What, she had no idea. Then he wiped his face with his hand, and she could hear the scratch of whiskers. He needed to shave—but damn, was he attractive.

  “You think I’m a terrorist, really? You think I would be so stupid as to risk everything I have, everything I’ve built, for what? Please help me out, because I’m confused about what you believe my motive is.”

  Well, that had her. Could she say he hated his country, its leaders, their religion? Maybe he was part of something or some cause, or may
be he was filled with hate for everyone and everything. How many terrorists stood out? They fit into society, assuming the roles of middle-class Americans—except Vic McCabe. He was anything but middle class, and he didn’t fit the profile of a righteous zealot.

  “Well then maybe you can explain to me why there’s a news report from fifteen years ago about your link to a family suspected of terrorism, about local authorities stumbling upon a threat on national soil.”

  Vic was shaking his head, and any emotion he had shown a moment earlier was now gone. “Your information isn’t correct, Tish. There was no terrorist attempt. What you have are misleading reports that don’t tell the entire story. You should know about that, after all. How many times have you done a story but left out key information because it would lessen the impact? You want that big bang so you can screw the people you hurt in the process.”

  That wasn’t entirely correct. Tish did her best to make sure she told the complete story, although she knew some of her colleagues printed only the more damning tales, leaving out bits and pieces that allowed different interpretations. “Not something I do,” she said.

  His brow quirked. “Really? I have a hard time believing that. Are you honestly going to tell me that you would print the truth with all its unsensational details? Pretty sure it wouldn’t get past your editor’s desk, and even less sure it would sell papers. You and I both know if it bleeds, it leads, and news people aren’t beyond creating a few lies and choosing to leave parts out to make a better story. When was the last time you actually read a lead story about something good?”

  What could she say to that? A story was something she had to pitch and sell to her editor. Everyone was vying for the top spot, and do-good stories or stories where the reporter actually lessened the impact and told all sides would never get printed.

  “Don’t bother trying to deny it,” Vic said. “So you’re here why, to get the truth?” He was shaking his head again. “I think you’re not, because the truth isn’t something your readers want, or your editor. You have a plan, an outline for how you want your story to read.”

  “That’s not true.” She had to interrupt him because he was making her sound as if she were a world-class bitch, dishonest and scum sucking. She wasn’t. “I’m here giving you a chance to answer all the accusations. You were carrying a toxic substance that had the potential—”

  He was shaking his head again. “I was a stupid kid who stole a car.”

  * * *

  The truth was that the car was one of thirty-three he’d stolen in total, and his second of the night, but Vic wasn’t going to tell Tish that. He continued: “I had stopped at a fancy hotel in Phoenix, and as I was checking out, I watched eight cops and a team of security cross the lobby.” He’d been high and had just wanted to bang his girlfriend for a few hours. Seeing those cops, he’d thought someone had done something really bad. “Then they came up to me, tossed me down on the floor, cuffed me, and dragged me through the crowded lobby and out the door.”

  Cameras had flashed in his face, and the parking lot had been a blaze of flashing lights, with cop cars everywhere and tape cordoning off the entire lot and what looked like a three-block radius. “I’m thinking What the fuck is going on? when I’m dragged to the stolen car, which has the trunk and doors open and a team of forensics going through every inch of it. Then I’m shoved to the ground again, face down, with cops yelling at me, and it wasn’t lost on me that this was totally wack, because it was just a stolen car, and it looked like the entire Phoenix police force was out for that.

  “It was then I realized something was really wrong. They’re screaming at me about what I’m carrying, and one of the gloved forensics had a Ziploc bag of white powder. I’m thinking dope, cocaine or something, but it ain’t mine. It was in the trunk of the car.”

  He’d nearly shit himself. Copping to car theft was one thing, as his prints would have been everywhere, but he’d never seen that bag. “I wasn’t going to go down for drugs. My prints wouldn’t have been on there,” he told Tish. He’d never bothered to search the car. It was never something he’d done. He just grabbed the cars and dropped them at a shop across the Nevada border, where they stripped them down. He’d been all attitude until that moment, when he’d become panicked, screaming out that they weren’t his drugs.

  “Then one of the forensic guys, the one holding the bag, I realized he was all gowned up with gloves, everything, a mask, and one of the cops said something about anthrax.”

  It had been the bald stocky cop with the bad attitude, who spat as he yelled. He’d kicked Vic twice when he was face down, licking the pavement. His brain hadn’t grasped the word the first few times, and he wondered what the hell they were talking about. “Then my phone rang, and up popped a picture of my friend as she called.” His cell had been stuffed in his back pocket, and the cop had grabbed his junk before yanking out his phone. “She was so pretty and dark skinned, and when the cop saw her face and her name on my screen and answered, I watched every cop’s expression change. You know what she said?”

  Tish seemed mesmerized by his story. The details must have matched some of what she’d read, some of what her source had told her, but not everything.

  “Was this Badra?”

  Vic didn’t nod, just took a breath. “She said, ‘Where are you? You need to hurry or we’ll never make the plane.’”

  Then all hell had broken loose. And that instant in time froze and was forever marked on his soul. He realized in horror what had just happened: racial profiling.

  Chapter 8

  The sun was coming up, and Vic took in the gas tank of his Charger. He needed gas and coffee. He spotted a roadside station up ahead and signaled to get off the highway. Maybe a moment to stretch, too, would help him figure out what he was going to do.

  It didn’t take him long to refuel and grab a cup of charred gas station coffee that tasted like yesterday’s leftovers that had simply been reheated. He made a face as he put it back in the cup holder when his phone buzzed. He was going to let it go to voicemail before he noted the private investigation firm’s name on the screen.

  “Vic McCabe,” he answered.

  “Mr. McCabe, this is Rusty Barlow. I’m Tom’s partner and just wanted to give you a call and let you know I’ve done some checking on that missing person you’re looking for.” The man’s deep twang sounded like he’d recently stepped across the border from Wyoming or some Midwestern county. He took a deep raspy breath as if he were having trouble getting air.

  “And?” Vic waited. It wasn’t so much that Badra was missing, it was that she didn’t want to be found. How could he blame her, though?

  “Tom located her at a coffee place in Bellevue, Creekside Coffeehouse.”

  He could hear papers rustling in the background, and he had to fight the urge to yell at the man to hurry up and get to it. “She works there?”

  “No, no, she runs it. Has for the last four years. I can text you the address.”

  Vic had to grit his teeth as he listened to more papers rustling. He pictured a desk in disarray. By the sounds of it, Rusty was old school in one too many ways. “I have the address already,” Vic said. “Anything else you have?”

  “What, you mean about her, whether she’s married, has a family? If you can tell me what you’re specifically looking for, I can track it down for you.”

  “No, don’t bother. Have Tom give me a shout when he’s back.” Vic disconnected before the other man could say anything else. Just then, he saw the sign for Bellevue in the distance.

  Bellevue was a lot of concrete and buildings, with some greenery. He had the address for the coffeehouse plugged into his GPS and found it in the downtown core. It wasn’t a busy town, considering he had no trouble finding parking as he pulled in front of Creekside and parked. The coffeehouse itself seemed busy, though, as he stepped out of his car and onto the sidewalk. He pulled open the door of the cafe, taking in the size, small, with about a dozen tables and a few easy chair
s. A large chalkboard sign listed beverages, from lattes to hot chocolate and everything in between. There were a few lunch items and daily specials, and the glassed-in display at the front had two rows of trays of baked goods.

  Two patrons were at the counter waiting to place their order, and one waitress carried two plates to a table. Another woman with short light hair, chunky and of average height, was behind the counter.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she said after the other two patrons had stepped away. She was wearing a red and white apron. An espresso machine was being operated by a younger man behind the counter, and he also spotted two women in back out of the corner of his eye.

  “Yes, I’ll have a double espresso with room for water, please. Can you tell me if Badra is here?”

  The woman looked up from the cash register with an odd expression. “Who?”

  Maybe the PI had gotten his wires crossed, given him the name of the wrong coffeehouse. “The manager,” he said. “Who manages this place?”

  “Oh, that’s Fiona,” she said.

  Vic pulled out a twenty from his wallet and waited for change.

  “Here’s your change. Your coffee will be ready in just a minute. Did you want to speak with Fiona? She’s just in back.” The woman was being helpful, but evidently he’d just driven all night to the wrong place, and he couldn’t help the frustration that hit him, probably putting a scowl on his face. Time to hire new investigators. He hated this kind of screw-up.

  He lifted his hand and started to say, “No…” Then he saw her, and he couldn’t make out whatever the girl replied.

  How could he forget that face, her expression, the soulful lost eyes of the girl who’d stolen his heart and then blamed him for destroying her life and her family?

  Chapter 9

  He was sitting at a table by the window, his back to the wall, a coffee cup in front of him, and he was waiting for her to join him. She stepped out of the small corner bathroom, realizing she couldn’t hide out in there forever, considering it was the only bathroom and the knob had been rattled twice already from someone trying to get in. All she could do was scream in her head as she relived a horror she’d spent the past fifteen years trying to forget. Why was he here, and what did he want from her?