Dangerous Melody. Dana Mentink
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The other was parked a good block away, a streamlined black Mercedes. Something about it struck a familiar chord.
As he turned it over in his mind, another thought occurred to him. “Steph?” He poked his head into the front room. “Where’s the cat?”
“What?” she said, blinking at him, a file folder in her hands.
“The cat. You said she was like clockwork about her food.” He gestured to the kitchen. “Hasn’t been touched.”
Stephanie’s brow furrowed. “I’ll bet she’s stuck in the upstairs bedroom again. The door swings shut and she gets locked in.”
“I’ll check.” He eyeballed the front door before he left and made sure it was locked. Probably nothing but his paranoia in action, but he doubled back and locked the kitchen door, too, before he made his way quietly across the hardwood floor and up the creaking stairs, which emptied out onto the long hallway, with three doorways. Two were open, the one on the far end, which Tate surmised was the extra bedroom, was closed. He walked slowly, scanning the two open rooms: a bathroom and another small room filled with more boxes. One more door beckoned. He approached slowly, put an ear to the wood and listened. No sound.
He felt slightly ridiculous prowling the property, but if Stephanie was right, Bittman had nearly killed Victor and taken her father. He wanted something from Stephanie, and he would no doubt do anything to get it. Tate told her flat-out when she started working for him that something wasn’t right, but she’d laughed it off, accused him of being the jealous type.
Not jealous, just perceptive. Bittman was crazy, and she should have trusted Tate. He felt a flash of anger followed by another surge of guilt. Who was he to blame her for not trusting him? He’d proven later that he was not a man she could count on.
Tate put a hand on the knob and turned it, inch by inch, until the door released. Pushing it open, he scanned the inside. A small bed, neatly made. Another door leading to what must be a bathroom, and one more, a paneled closet. He started with the closet, rolling it open slowly. Empty, not so much as a forgotten coat. The stack of three boxes nearby indicated she’d not yet gotten around to the spare room. This was odd for Stephanie, who was manically organized, a woman who arranged her books on the shelves according to size and color. It was not like her to leave anything half done, even after only a few days in her new space.
A soft thump came from the bathroom. He froze, listening. Another thump and a soft scuffling noise. The cat? Maybe. Maybe not. He crept closer to the door, which was pulled mostly closed. Since he hadn’t turned on the light, the room was dim. Easing along one footstep at a time, he hoped the squeak of the worn floorboards under his feet would not give him away.
Drawing close enough to see through, he caught the flutter of movement. He did a slow count to three and threw open the door. It crashed into the wall behind as he leaped through. A pigeon with iridescent feathers around its neck fluffed in alarm from its perch on the rim of the old-fashioned bath tub. With an irritated flap of feathers, it flew back to the window and scuttled through the gap.
He watched the pigeon disappear through the open window.
It took only a moment for him to notice the scuff mark on the sill, a black heel mark that could only have come from a man’s shoe.
* * *
Stephanie shoved the papers into the folder in disgust. What did she hope to find? How could she win against Joshua Bittman when he held the ultimate card? Her father’s life. She tried to take a calming breath and offer up a prayer, but her mind was too scattered. She had to figure out a way, without Tate’s help. His lazy smile replayed itself in her memory. His sister was so like him, though neither one would admit to it, except for one important difference. Maria led with her emotions, her passions and disappointments written on her face for all the world to see.
Bittman saw that need in Maria and exploited it, no doubt, after Stephanie quit his employ and tried to remove him from her life. Futile effort. Everywhere she went, he kept tabs on her, reminding her in the subtlest ways that he remained in her life in spite of her feelings. Phone calls, texts, jewelry delivered to her various apartments, even the smell of his peculiar cologne wafting through her car told her he was close, so close, with unrestricted access to her.
And now, it seemed, to her family and Tate’s. Stephanie closed her eyes, thinking once again that the blame for Maria’s relationship with Bittman lay squarely at Stephanie’s feet. She did not believe, however, that Bittman had disposed of Maria in some violent manner. He didn’t need to. With his wealth and enormous power, he could cut her out like a diseased patch of flesh. She would never get close to him unless he desired it. So Tate was wrong about the fact that Bittman made her disappear. If he would listen to reason, she could explain it to him.
Getting to her feet, she heard a soft meow from the room earmarked for a guest room if she ever managed to put down roots.
She pushed open the door, calling up the stairs as she did so. “I found her, Tate.”
There was an answering shout from upstairs, but she did not respond, her attention riveted by the man sitting ramrod straight in her grandmother’s old rocking chair.
“Hello, Stephanie,” Bittman said, stroking the cat curled in his lap. “You look breathtaking.”
The folder slipped from her fingers, papers floating to the floor around her feet. She wanted to scream, to yell to Tate, but nothing would come out of her mouth. Bittman eased the cat from his lap and brushed at a few hairs left on his pants. His face was smooth and unlined, approaching his mid-thirties. Long, dark hair combed away from his high forehead accentuated the pale skin, brown eyes glinting through small angled glasses.
He gestured to the bed. “Please, sit down. I imagine your oaf of a boyfriend will be here in a moment.”
He’s not my boyfriend, she wanted to whisper. Instead she took a deep breath, fighting down the fear that clawed at her throat, anger rising along with it. “I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing, but I want my father back right now.”
Bittman chuckled, his glasses glinting in the dying sunlight. “Impatient as ever. I will hold off until Mr. Fuego makes it down the stairs.”
They didn’t wait more than a few seconds before Tate crashed through the door. His eyes sought hers, simmering with a mixture of anger and something else. “You okay?” he asked softly, pulling a phone from his pocket.
She nodded.
Bittman sighed. “Mr. Fuego, put away the phone. You will not be calling the police or anyone else. Stephanie doesn’t want you to do that.”
His lips quirked into a smile. As much as she wanted Tate to call the police, to have the supreme satisfaction of watching Joshua Bittman go through the demeaning process of being handcuffed on his way to jail, she knew the cost was too high.
“Put it away, Tate. I have to know what he wants from us.”
“Where’s my sister?” Tate demanded.
“I imagine this is why you intruded on my property.”
“Where’s Maria?”
Bittman’s delicate eyebrows arched a fraction. “Mr. Fuego, you bore me. Running all over town like some Keystone Cop is not becoming. Stick with your current job. Blowing up buildings is more suited to your intellect.”
Tate took a step forward. “Tell me.”
Bittman gave him a cold stare. “Why would I tell you anything? You are, in the common vernacular, a loser. Addicted to painkillers, barely able to keep your father’s business out of the red and, if my information is complete, the very same man who almost killed Stephanie, a woman who is far too good for you.”
Stephanie’s heart twisted, and she grabbed Tate’s wrist before he could go after Bittman. “Just tell us what you want.”
Bittman nodded. “Nothing from Mr. Fuego. His presence is strictly an annoyance, and I believe he went so far as to