Secure Location

chapter Twenty

It took Myers less than a minute to get the word out. Every cop on the street was going to be looking for the car.

“Now what?” Myers asked.

“We’re going back to the only place I know that he’s been to recently.”

It took them twelve minutes. The front door was locked and the restaurant was dark inside. It wouldn’t be open for several hours. “Back door?” Myers asked.

Cruz led the way through the alley. He didn’t bother to knock on the screen door, just pushed it open and walked into the kitchen. There were two men, one stirring something in a big pot, the other cutting up raw chicken. They started yelling in some foreign language.

Myers flashed his badge and they got quiet.

“We don’t want to cause you any trouble,” Cruz said. “I’m looking for the woman who waitresses here. Thin. Blond hair. Thirties. I want her name and address.”

The two men looked at each other. The man cutting up the chicken gave the other a curt nod. The man stirring the soup stopped.

“Abby Breese. She lives just down the street, in the three-story building at the corner.”

The man’s English was pretty good. Cruz nodded his thanks and took off running. He could hear Myers behind him. The building was old, dirty and smelled bad. There was carpet in the foyer that had likely been there twenty years.

The scratched and dented mailboxes at the entrance indicated that A. Breese lived on the third floor. Cruz ran up all three flights. He knocked sharply and waited impatiently. Finally, the door opened.

It was the woman he was looking for. She didn’t look surprised to see him and he figured one of the guys from the restaurant had called to warn her.

“Detective Montoya,” she said.

“I want to know if you’ve recently seen Troy Blakely. It’s important.”

She stared at Cruz. “He’s done something bad, hasn’t he?” she asked.

Cruz hoped not. “I don’t know.”

“I saw him earlier this week.”

“At the restaurant.”

“Yes. He stopped for food. I asked him where he was living and he said that he’d moved to an apartment in the Valdez area.”

“Street?” Cruz demanded.

She shook her head. “He said he was getting lots of exercise because he was on the fourth floor.”

* * *

“HURTING ME ISN’T going to bring Missy back,” Meg said.

T.J. shook his head. “I don’t care about Missy. I never did. I hated her. Always crying and getting all the attention.”

Missy had been a good baby. She’d hardly ever been fussy. And she’d idolized her big brother. Tried to follow him everywhere, be just like him. If T.J. wanted hot dogs for lunch, then that’s what Missy wanted.

He could do no wrong.

Except that one time. With a chill, Meg remembered walking into the family room, expecting to see T.J. and Missy watching a movie and instead, had seen T.J. with a toy gun in his hands, shooting Missy’s collection of dolls that he’d lined up across the room.

Missy had been sitting on the couch, tears running down her face.

Meg had gathered up the guns, put the dolls safely back on Missy’s shelves and told T.J. that he couldn’t ever do something like that again. She’d mentioned it to Gloria and the gun had disappeared by the next time she went over to babysit.

“You don’t want to go to prison, T.J. That’s what will happen if you hurt me,” she said. “It’s not too late. We can undo this.”

“I hated you, too,” he said. He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it. He started to sway from side to side. “You loved Missy more, just like everyone else.”

“I didn’t,” she said. She glanced past him. If she could get around the couch, she might make it to the door before he could stop her. “I’m sorry you thought that.”

He ignored the apology. “But I figured out a way to get both of you,” he said. He was swaying so fast, it looked as if he were rocking. “It was easy, too. I heard the doorbell ring and knew that you’d gone to answer the door. I wanted ice cream but I sure as hell wasn’t asking you for anything. I saw her sitting in her highchair with the marshmallows at the other end of the table. I wanted some. I ate one and she started to cry. I didn’t want you coming back so I gave her a bunch. She stuffed them all in her mouth. Her cheeks were full of them. She was stupid. Couldn’t even figure out how to swallow.”

He abruptly stopped rocking and started pacing around her in circles. “She started to turn blue. I knew I’d get the blame. I always got the blame for everything. So I loosened up the tray on the highchair, pulled her out and sat her on the table, next to the bag of marshmallows. Then I went back into the other room and started watching television again.” He lifted one corner of his mouth in an ugly sneer. “When the police came, you told them that I’d been watching television the whole time. You made it so easy for everyone to blame you.”

Meg put a hand to her throat, pressing down the urge to vomit. She hadn’t been careless. She hadn’t caused sweet Missy’s death. He had. All these years. All the guilt.

Leaving Cruz.

Being afraid to have her own child.

She had never been so angry in her whole life.

Or so determined. She needed to save her baby, save herself. And T.J. was obviously crazy. Earlier he’d been blaming her for all his family’s troubles when he clearly knew that he’d caused all the havoc. She didn’t need to convince him that she hadn’t done anything wrong; he knew. “I always hoped I’d see you again,” she said. “I had some pictures of your mother. Of her and you together that I wanted to give you.”

His head jerked up. She’d caught his attention.

“Where?” he demanded.

Given that he’d been in both her apartment and her office, those weren’t good options. “I have a safe deposit box at the bank. I keep all my important papers there.”

“Which bank?”

“The one across from the hotel,” she said. “I have the key in my purse,” she said. “Back at the office. Of course, it won’t do you much good. Banks are really strict about who gets access. If your name isn’t on the list, it doesn’t matter whether you have a key or not.”

He started to rock again. “How many pictures?” he asked.

“I don’t recall for sure. But I know there were several and they were really good shots. I think one of them was of your mom and you sitting on your front porch. Remember when you used to do that?”

He didn’t answer. Sweat was running down his face. Without saying another word, he picked up his phone. He pushed a button, putting it on speaker. Then he connected to directory assistance. “Fillmore Federal in San Antonio,” he said. While the operator was connecting the call, he pointed a finger at her. “Get them to verify that you’ve got a safe deposit box there or you’ll be dead before they hang up the phone.”

Meg swallowed hard. When the bank answered, she asked to be transferred to the safe deposit department.

“Hi,” she said. “This is Margaret Montoya calling. I’m a little embarrassed to be making this call but I relocated to San Antonio within the last year and opened accounts at two different banks. I also opened a safe deposit box at one bank but I can’t quite remember which bank.” She laughed nervously. “Would you be able to tell me if I have a safe deposit box at your bank?”

The woman at the other end chuckled. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who forgets things.” There was a pause. “Yes, Ms. Montoya. Your safe deposit box is with us.”

Meg looked at T.J. He was breathing so hard that it almost seemed as if he was panting. “Thank you so much,” Meg said. “What are your hours today?”

“We’re open until four,” the woman said.

“Thanks again,” Meg said, and hung up. Four. They closed in less than fifteen minutes. The ride from the hotel to the apartment had taken at least that. There was no time to get it today.

“We need that key. Damn it,” he added, as he slammed his fist into the wall. Meg tried not to flinch. She’d managed to get a tiny bit of leverage. She didn’t want him to realize that she was so frightened that she could barely breathe.

“We’re going back to the hotel tonight. And you’re going to get your safe deposit key,” he said. “Then tomorrow, we’re going to the bank. If you do anything stupid, a lot of people will die.”

There would be multiple opportunities for escape. She would find one and end this, before anyone got hurt because of her. She could not live with that again.

“Sit there,” he said, motioning for her to move from her chair to the couch.

She shook her head. “I can sit here,” she said.

“Move, damn it,” he yelled and he pointed his gun at her.

She got up. She would survive this. She would have to. Her baby’s life depended upon it.

She sat on the couch, near the armrest, and he crouched next to her. The next thing happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that she yelped when a cold, black steel manacle snapped around her wrist.

She looked down. Anchoring her in place was a thick metal chain connected to a bolt that was drilled into the old wood floor. She was trapped, like an animal in a cage.