Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(74)

So what happened to the damned toy? Maybe it was never even in the house.

No. It was. Nick Walsh said it was.

So where is it now?

There’s only one way to find out.

Make that two.

You can either ask the Walshes nicely—and subtly—and be on your way. Or you can force it out of them, and leave no witnesses behind.

The first option is infinitely more appealing, of course. But the clock is ticking, and Garvey Quinn isn’t exactly known for his infinite patience.

A little more time. That’s all I need. I’ve already blended into their lives here. No one’s giving me a second glance. If I can find it on my own, no one will ever be the wiser. No casualties, like Garvey said.

Just a couple more days. Then, if the stuffed animal—and the file—still haven’t turned up, there will be no alternative.

The nice little suburban family will, regrettably, have to be destroyed.

Oh well.

Better the Walshes than the Quinns.



It would have been nice, Mike thinks as he heads up Hanover Street, if Elsa Cavalon had wanted to see him about something other than her missing son, or the woman she had more recently asked him to track down.

He turns to catch a last glimpse of her walking in the opposite direction. Damn, she’s hot. Even after all these years, and a one-way trip to hell, there’s something about her that turns him on.

Better not to get involved with her on an emotional level, though.

What the hell are you talking about? You’ve always been emotionally involved, from the moment she showed up with that picture of her missing kid.

Physically. That’s what he meant. He can’t get physically involved…much as he’d like to. Even though his policy is to mix business with pleasure whenever possible.

But for him, Elsa Cavalon is off limits. She’s married, she’s classy, and—most importantly—Mike suspects she’s hanging on to her sanity by a mere thread.

She’s better now, though, than she was. She told him she’s been keeping busy—doing some volunteer work, taking care of her new house…

She looks a lot better, too, than she used to. She was always a beautiful woman—anyone could see that—but there was a ravaged look to her back then.

Her gorgeous face has some color to it now. She’s wearing makeup today, and all dressed up. She’s still skin and bones, but her kind of figure has always appealed to Mike, who grew up surrounded by voluptuous women—and married one.

Yeah. Elsa Cavalon gets to him. And he’s not going to do a damned thing about it.

Mike waits for a delivery truck to rattle past, then crosses the street in mid-block.

“Hey, Mikey,” the Sicilian butcher calls, emphasis on the second syllable.

“Hey, Joe. Whatsa matter, you got nothin’ to do today? No dead cows to chop up?”

“I got plenty of dead cows. And I got some nice capicolla just for you.” Cigarette in hand and wearing his red-stained apron, Joe lounges against a globe-topped lamppost. “You want a sang-wich, Mikey?”

“Later, Joe. Maybe later.” Mike unlocks the door tucked between Joe’s shop and the neighboring pharmacy storefront.

Inside, he doesn’t bother to stop at the row of post-boxes and check mail. Nothing that matters comes to this address. He rents a box down at the main branch for that.

Up he goes, taking three narrow flights of stairs with practiced ease. On the top floor, he unlocks his door and thinks again of Elsa.

She’s on her way home now, to her husband and their new house down by the Connecticut shore. What’s she going to tell him when she gets there? That this was a wasted trip? That they might as well give up on Mike, because he’s given up on them?

“I wish I had something new that I could tell you,” he said to Elsa earlier—and it was true. He did wish he could tell her…something.

But he can’t. Not unless…

Time to make a call.

Tossing his keys on the table, he notes that the cordless phone isn’t sitting in the charger base. Not unusual. He looks around but doesn’t see it, and that’s not just because the shades are drawn. There’s crap everywhere. Papers, files, magazines. Beer bottles—a lot of those. Piles of dirty laundry and even a few stacks of clean clothes.

No freaking phone.

Mike pulls out his cell, dials the apartment number, and waits.

Ah—the ringing is coming from a pillow on the futon. He lifts it up, and there’s the cordless.

He hangs up the cell and tosses it aside, not wanting to dial this particular number from that particular phone. Better that it comes from the landline, which will register his name. Maybe this time, for a change, the call will be answered. He’s been trying for a couple of days now.

He dials the number.

The line rings once…twice…three, four, five times.

Then the voice mail picks up, as it has been lately.

“Hey, this is Byron. You know what to do. Do it at the beep.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN




Dr. Rogel’s office is unusual, as medical offices go. It’s a two-room deal. There’s no receptionist, and not much of a waiting area—just two chairs and a table with a few magazines: Highlights, Woman’s Day, Sports Illustrated Kids.

There’s a white noise machine, too, right next to the closed door leading to the inner office. The pleasant rhythm of ocean waves makes it impossible to hear what’s being said on the other side of the door.