“No, thanks.” He didn’t need this. If Eunice had some latent maternal feelings, fine, but he didn’t want to hear about them. As far as he was concerned, she came up to see him only because her guilt was gnawing away at her again, the same as it did during each Christmas and some birthdays. She was a part-time mother at best and content to be no better.
“You might change your mind.” She was gathering up her purse and a navy jacket that she slung over one arm.
“I won’t.”
“Whatever you say, Zach, but I only came here because I love you.”
She walked out of the room, the scent of the same expensive perfume that he remembered from his earliest days trailing after her.
Pain and loneliness engulfed him but he fought it. He didn’t belong with anyone. His father didn’t trust him, his mother—despite her protests—didn’t love him, and he felt little kinship with his brothers and sisters. He thought of his stepmother in indecent terms and he didn’t have many friends—didn’t want them. And now London was missing. He was surprised how much it bothered him, thinking that she was small and scared and alone. He blinked rapidly and refused to cry. Not for his mother. Not for London. Not for himself. He’d shed enough tears when Eunice had walked out all those years ago; he wouldn’t be foolish enough to do it again.
He decided it was time to move on. As soon as he was well enough, he’d sell his car and…God, quit dreaming. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until this thing with London was straightened out; otherwise he’d look guilty as hell and half the cops in the state would be after him. But maybe, hopefully, by the time he was released, London would be found and home safely. Then no one would notice if he left.
He’d have to be patient, which wasn’t going to be easy. Patience had never been his long suit. But right now, he was stuck. There was just no damned way out.
9
Jack Logan didn’t like the Polidoris. Especially Anthony. Never had, never would.
He snapped in the cigarette lighter of his pride and joy, a 1969 Ford Galaxy two-door. Cherry red with an ivory top and horsepower that wouldn’t quit, the car was a gift from Witt Danvers—an expensive gift. Logan didn’t want to think of it as a bribe. Frowning as he caught a glimpse of his weathered face in the rearview mirror, he tried not to dwell on the fact that he, who was basically an honest cop, had been bought by Witt Danvers. Idling at a light near Seventeenth, he slid out a Marlboro from the pack he kept on the dash and stuck it between his lips. Truth to tell, he didn’t like Danvers much more than he did Polidori. The lighter clicked and he lit up as the light changed.
Logan didn’t trust people with money, especially rich people with political ambitions; at the top of his list of most untrustworthy were Anthony Polidori and Witt Danvers. Polidori was making noise about running for the state senate, and the Catholic and Italian voters were on his side; Witt had his eye on becoming mayor or governor, Logan suspected, and the WASPs in Portland would vote for him. Logan’s stomach turned at the thought. If things worked the way Witt hoped they would, Witt Danvers would end up as Logan’s boss. Hell, what a mess!
He wheeled the Ford through a yellow light on McLoughlin Boulevard and headed south, out of the city, toward Milwaukie, where an entire enclave of Italian truck farmers thrived for the better part of a century. The Polidoris had been vegetable vendors once, but they’d saved their money, invested in cheap land, sold their produce to the finest restaurants in Portland, and quietly amassed a fortune—not as large as the Danvers wealth, but substantial just the same.
Yep, Logan thought, drawing in a lungful of smoke, he’d love to see Anthony Polidori go down for the Danvers kidnapping. It would be fun to see that little creep squirm in the interrogation room. But it wasn’t going to happen. He knew it, Polidori knew it, and Witt Danvers, whether the stubborn old man wanted to admit it or not, knew it, too.
He flipped the ash from his cigarette out the window and stepped on the gas pedal. Ignoring the speed limits, he wheeled through the crooked streets of Milwaukie to the fir-lined drive leading to Waverley Country Club, where mansions and landscaped grounds surrounded the most elite country club in the city. Acres of lush greens and fairways were part of the exclusive club that sprawled along the eastern banks of the Willamette River.
Frowning slightly, Logan turned unerringly into the drive and waited at the gate for a security guard to determine if he should pass. Logan didn’t have time for any bullshit. He flipped open his wallet, showing his badge—which was a waste of time, as the guard knew who he was anyway—then stubbed out his cigarette in the tray.
With a whine of electrical gears, the gate slowly opened. Logan pushed on the throttle and the Galaxy rolled past rose gardens and fountains to the rambling manor.
Anthony Polidori met him at the front door. A short man with a widening girth, thin mustache, dark eyes that flashed when he was angry, and teeth rimmed in gold, he motioned Logan into a vestibule the size of which would hold all of Logan’s little bungalow in Sellwood.
“Don’t bother explaining why you’re here,” Polidori said, ushering him through double doors of polished dark wood. “I know it’s about the Danvers girl again.” With a wave toward a tucked leather chair, he strode to the bar, splashed three fingers of Irish whiskey into each of two cut-crystal glasses, and handed a drink to Logan.
The smoky scent of the whiskey tickled Logan’s nostrils, but he left the glass on the corner of Polidori’s massive desk. He longed for the drink, but managed to hide it. “Your name keeps coming up.”
“So I’ve been told.” Polidori didn’t bother sitting, just stood near the leaded glass windows and stared at the view of the river. “Your men have been here daily. You know I’m a patient man, but even I consider this a waste of my time and the taxpayers’ money. There’s nothing more I can tell them or you. Call them off, Logan. Tell them to go after the real criminals.”
Logan didn’t bother replying. Let the jerk talk. He was on a roll.
“I’m surprised you showed up in person.”
“I wasn’t satisfied with Taylor’s report. It, uh, seemed incomplete.”
Polidori sighed. “Look, Logan, I had nothing to do with that little girl’s disappearance.”
“Cut the crap,” Logan said in a voice so low, he didn’t recognize it as his own.
Polidori’s dark eyes flashed. “You don’t believe me, either.”
“Let’s just get down to it. Two of your goons attacked Zachary Danvers, messed him up bad enough to send him to the hospital, and, at about the same time little London Danvers and her nanny disappeared. Coincidence?”
“Do I need to call my lawyer?”
“You tell me.”
“I had nothing to do with either incident,” Polidori insisted, then strode to the bar and poured himself another drink. “Nothing.”
Logan didn’t believe a word of it. “Maybe you’d like to know why we’re riding you so hard. I’ve got a pretty long memory and I remember you making some pretty rash statements when your old man died.”
“That was years ago.”
Without blinking, Logan stared him down. “You made no bones about the fact that you blamed Julius Danvers, Witt’s father, for that accident at the restaurant.”
Anthony’s face flushed.
“You swore vengeance on the whole Danvers clan.”
The corners of Polidori’s mouth tightened but his eyes shone with a hate so pure it chilled Logan’s leather-tough soul. “That was years ago. Julius Danvers—”
“Is dead.”
“—was a murdering bastard. He killed my father, Logan. You and I and all of Portland know it. He hired one of his thugs to pour some kerosene in the hotel and the whole damned thing went up in flames.” His nostrils flared as he leaned closer to the detective. “That inferno killed seven people. The only reason more didn’t lose their lives is because the hotel was closed that weekend. Someone who knew my father would be there gambled. And won.”