Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

“How about Tina?”

Detective Harris drew a big sigh. “We’re doing everything we can to find her. She wasn’t at the motel where her uncle was staying.”

My heart sank. Where could she be? “And her father? How’s he doing?”

After a pause, she said, “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

The news hit me like a gut punch. With her parents dead and her uncle headed to the slammer for murder, what would happen to Tina?

* * * * *

Duvall had an important surveillance job the next day, and I wasn’t about to keep him from it.

“Go,” I said. “You can’t be my full-time babysitter.”

“I suppose.” He looked reluctant. “I’d put this off if I could, but unfortunately . . . .”

“Please. You have a business to run, and for that matter, so do I. Do what you have to. I’ll see you later.”

“All right,” he said. “Promise me you’ll be careful. Stay home today.”

“The last time I saw Diesel, he’d broken into my apartment. Maybe that’s the wrong thing to do. I should probably go to a library or a coffee shop. Some public place where he won’t be able to harm me.”

He nodded. “That’s a thought. But watch your back.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t take any candy from strangers.”

My dismissive remark made him smile, but did little to calm my own nerves.

* * * * *

After Duvall left, I called the attorney in my “bruised knee” case. He made it sound like we were on the road to a settlement. Then I called Sheila to check on my mail. In addition to the usual bills and junk, a couple of things from the court clerk and an oversized envelope from Slippery Steve awaited my return. He’d probably sent something to placate me. Whether it was enough, remained to be seen.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Things seemed to be looking up.

I stopped at the office to fetch the mail and went to the Starbucks where I’d been working lately. As I bought my “grande” Italian Roast, I felt a twinge of guilt about giving my money to “Big Coffee” instead of my favorite neighborhood coffee shop, but Starbucks had wi-fi access.

I was reviewing the answers to interrogatories Slippery Steve had sent when my phone rang. The number was blocked, but I answered anyway.

“Hello, Ms. McRae.” The voice was deep, with a hint of menace.

“Who is this?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I knew.

“I should feel offended that you don’t remember me, chickie-poo. Of course, we didn’t meet under the happiest circumstances, did we?”

Diesel. How had he gotten my cell number? Duh! My calls were still being forwarded from the office. Checking my assumption, I asked, “How did you get this number?” I forced my voice to stay low and calm.

“You’re listed in the phone book, aren’t you? Anyway, a friend of yours has your card. Perhaps you’d like to speak to her.” There was a pause, then I heard Tina. “Sam,” she said, in a quavering voice. “This man . . . he come to the motel and made me leave wit’ him.”

“Tina, are you okay?”

“I’m all right, but I wanna go home. I wanna see my pops.”

Her tone was full of naked fear. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her uncle had killed her father.

“Tina, don’t panic. The man won’t hurt you if you go along with him.” I hoped to God this was true. When I heard no response, I said, “Tina? Tina, are you there?”

“Excellent advice, Ms. McRae. I keep telling little Tina that if she’ll simply behave, everything will go fine. Now, if you’ll behave, too, we’ll all be happy.”