24 Karat Ammunition. Joanna Wayne
except for the landscaping lamps dotted about the flowerbeds and shrubbery. The house was two-story with lots of angles and gables on a corner lot. Langston parked in the driveway and killed the engine. He’d made a few phone calls on his way north. One had been to Aidan Jefferies, a detective friend in Houston who’d learned that Trish had been involved in a carjacking/kidnapping incident eight days ago.
Luckily she’d escaped unhurt after being rescued by a local detective, a man who’d become suspicious when he spotted the car speeding down an Interstate exit ramp and recognized the abductor as a suspect he’d questioned months earlier. The detective had followed until Trish had run the car off the road and wrecked the car. A shootout had followed, and the carjacker had been shot and killed by the cop. It had made the local newspaper but not the front page. An explosion at a local plant had been the hot topic of the day.
An open-and-shut case according to police records, but Langston had a strong suspicion that it was somehow tied to the strange phone call she’d made to Gina.
He retrieved his emergency flashlight from his glove compartment and stuck it in the front pocket of his jeans. He also took the Glock, just to be on the safe side. He rang the bell and waited. As expected, there was no answer and no signs of life.
Breaking in houses wasn’t his specialty, though this wouldn’t officially be breaking and entering since Gina had given him her key. He put his face to the door and shot a beam of light into the foyer.
He couldn’t see much of the living area beyond the entranceway, but he did see an overturned table and a shattered vase, its bouquet of flowers scattered about the floor. His worry about alarms vanished.
He unlocked the door hurriedly and stepped inside. “Trish.” He called her name but didn’t wait for an answer before racing to the living room and then reeling at the destruction. Cushions and pillows were ripped and cotton and feathers were scattered everywhere.
Adrenaline rush and apprehension had his heart pounding as he made his way through the house. “Trish, it’s Langston. Are you here? If you’re hiding, you can come out.” There was no response.
The rest of the house matched the kitchen. Drawers were open, their contents scattered. Even the closets had been ransacked. Not your typical random vandalism. Whoever had come in was more likely looking for something in particular. He tried the kitchen door that led to the garage. It was unlocked and the garage was empty.
He stepped over broken glass and walked to the door that led from the kitchen to the backyard, flicking on the outside light and stepping outside. There was a small pool and some yard chairs. The area was enclosed by thick shrubbery and a high security fence. He spun and aimed the gun at the sound of movement in the water, but it was only the pool cleaner rearing its vacuuming head to spit a stream of water in his direction.
Langston scanned the pool. A plastic float was backed into the far right corner and a couple of iridescent diving rings rested on the bottom. The courtyard area was untouched by the demolition. He went back inside and searched again, not breathing easy until he was certain that Trish was not in the house, injured—or worse.
Leaving things just as he’d found them, Langston went back to his car, input the address that Gina had supplied into his GPS system and drove the few blocks to Trish’s shop, Cottage Boutique. He stopped a couple of doors down, in a strip mall to the right of Trish’s shop. The boutique looked more like an old house, a survivor in the world of sleek shopping centers. To the left was another cottage, this one a day spa spouting a sign that proclaimed it a haven from stress.
Trish’s boutique was closed, as were all the shops except for a chain coffee café at the far end of the strip mall. He studied the displays of fashionably dressed mannequins in two lighted bay windows of the boutique as he walked to the front door. Thick drapes hung behind the displays, keeping the shop’s interior from view.
The door was locked and the blinds were closed tight so that there was no way to see inside. A small sign by the doorway said Please Ring For Entry. He did. The shop stayed dark and silent.
Frustrated, he pulled the list of names and numbers Gina had given him from his pocket and held it beneath the beam of his flashlight. The photograph of Selena, Gina and Trish stared back at him. His chest tightened and his lungs closed around his quickened breath. His instincts screamed that Trish was in trouble and that if he didn’t find her fast, it would be too late.
He scanned the notes for the information on where Trish went when she needed to get away. Long walks in the park. Movies. A fishing camp on Lake Livingston that belonged to Selena’s boyfriend. If she was running from someone, she might have gone there.
Langston was already back in his sports car when the lights in the front windows of the boutique flicked off. Probably on a timer he decided, but he waited for a few minutes to make certain. He’d started the engine and was backing from his parking spot when he saw the garage door of Trish’s shop begin to lift.
Damn. There had been someone inside.
He revved his engine and swerved from the strip center, pulling into the driveway of the cottage just as a white compact car started to back out. The driver squealed to a stop when she saw him. He blocked her in, then jumped from behind the wheel and raced to her door.
He shone a beam of light into her car. The dark-haired young woman—the same one who was in the picture Gina had given him—stared at him, her eyes wide with fear.
He laid the pistol on top of the car, and leaned against the door. “I’m not going to hurt you, Selena,” he said, talking loudly enough for her to hear through the closed window. “I’m looking for Trish Cantrell.”
She shook her head.
“I didn’t have anything to do with the carjacking. I’m just a friend. Gina came to me for help. My name’s Langston Collingsworth.” Not that there was any reason she’d have ever heard of him. Still, he took his wallet from his pocket and pressed his ID against the window, shining his light so that she could see it.
Surprisingly, she responded with a nod and some of the fear seemed to dissolve from her face as if she recognized his name.
“Can you lower the window so we can talk?”
She nodded and did as he’d asked. “Where’s Gina? Is she okay?”
“At my family’s ranch down in Colts Run Cross. She’s fine but worried about her mother.”
No response.
“Where’s Trish?” he demanded.
“I don’t know.”
He leaned closer. “I know Trish is in trouble. I know about the carjacking and I’ve seen the mess at her house.”
“How could you know about the carjacking?” she asked suspiciously. “Gina doesn’t even know about that.”
“It’s not exactly a secret. It was in the newspaper and I talked to a friend who’s a detective.”
“You talked to the police?”
“I talked to one cop. He’s not with the DPD. Trish is obviously in danger, and Gina came to me. I just want to help.”
“I don’t know where she is. Now, please, move your car. I have to go home.”
He grabbed her arm. “Is she at your boyfriend’s fishing cabin?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re lying. She’s at the camp, isn’t she?”
“If I tell you, you must promise not to go to the police, not even to your detective friend.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But Trish made me promise on the Bible, and you have to promise, too.”
He didn’t make promises easily, and he never broke them unless he found out he’d been lied to. This time he had no choice. There was no time to waste.