plain, plump woman of multiracial background. Too young to be a single mother of three, of course, but her kind always seems to breed indiscriminately. She walks fifteen blocks to work each day to save on subway fares. Her mother is already raising four grandchildren in a one-room flat, so I don’t imagine three more will be welcome.”
The information on Rita made it clear that King had been investigating him for some time. “You’re bluffing.”
“I’ve just received the background information on Ms. Dietrich.” King drank something. “It seems she was recently involved in some very unpleasant business in Atlanta. She’s wanted on multiple assault charges, vandalism, and various computer crimes. One of the corporations she defrauded is offering a sizable reward for her apprehension and return for prosecution.”
Meriden said nothing.
“I can arrange to have both Rita and Ms. Dietrich picked up today,” the old man continued. “Some of my employees are former convicts, you understand, and prefer to indulge some of their personal vices before they carry out their specific orders—”
“Enough.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll do it.”
“I thought you might.” King’s voice turned crisp. “The file in the envelope contains all the information you need to locate my daughter. Once you have her, you will bring her to me directly.” He gave Meriden the address of one of the last privately owned mansions in Manhattan. “One last thing I should mention. Your movements and your communications will be under constant surveillance. Any attempt on your part to involve the authorities in any capacity will result in the immediate execution of someone you know, starting with Ms. Gonzalez.”
Meriden opened the file and saw a stack of neatly typed pages, along with the photo of a young blond girl about nine years old. The kid was smiling, but her dark blue eyes looked frightened. “I suppose now you’ll give me some sort of impossible deadline to do this.”
“Not at all,” the old man said. “I understand these sorts of investigations do take some time. I will give you three weeks to locate my daughter and bring her home.”
“Why three?” Meriden asked. “Why not one, or five, or twelve?”
“Because I only have three weeks to live, Mr. Meriden,” King said calmly. “And, unless you find Alana, so do you.”
Chapter 4
T he town of Halagan, California, didn’t appear on most maps, and was barely large enough to rate a Welcome sign. The only paved road was Main Street, which curled through Halagan’s official business district, a cluster of old wood-sided buildings, one or two that dated back to the Gold Rush days, when miners came down out of the hills to buy flour, salt pork, and, if they’d panned enough that month, an hour with one of the tired whores at one of the town’s five taverns.
A few weeks ago Andrew Riordan had stopped here for gas, caught a glimpse of a for-rent sign in the window of a boardinghouse, and decided it was as good a place as any to hole up in.
His landlady, an older woman who bred horses on a ranch a few miles outside of town, had not asked for his phony references or much in the way of a deposit.
“Rent’s due on the first of the month, utilities included,” she told him briskly. “You pay for your phone calls per week. No kids or pets, no loud music, no cooking, and if you have a girlfriend by, she needs to leave before breakfast.”
“Fair enough.” He handed over his cash deposit. “Who else lives in the house?”
“Besides my good-for-nothing nephew?” Her mouth twisted. “A geologist doing some survey mapping up in the hills, one of the elementary school teachers in the middle of a nasty divorce, and Mr. Cantwell, who is collecting government disability while he tries to finish his first novel.”
Drew winced. “What’s his disability?”
“I believe he has a terminal case of lazy-ass, don’t-want-to-work syndrome.” She tucked his money
The information on Rita made it clear that King had been investigating him for some time. “You’re bluffing.”
“I’ve just received the background information on Ms. Dietrich.” King drank something. “It seems she was recently involved in some very unpleasant business in Atlanta. She’s wanted on multiple assault charges, vandalism, and various computer crimes. One of the corporations she defrauded is offering a sizable reward for her apprehension and return for prosecution.”
Meriden said nothing.
“I can arrange to have both Rita and Ms. Dietrich picked up today,” the old man continued. “Some of my employees are former convicts, you understand, and prefer to indulge some of their personal vices before they carry out their specific orders—”
“Enough.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll do it.”
“I thought you might.” King’s voice turned crisp. “The file in the envelope contains all the information you need to locate my daughter. Once you have her, you will bring her to me directly.” He gave Meriden the address of one of the last privately owned mansions in Manhattan. “One last thing I should mention. Your movements and your communications will be under constant surveillance. Any attempt on your part to involve the authorities in any capacity will result in the immediate execution of someone you know, starting with Ms. Gonzalez.”
Meriden opened the file and saw a stack of neatly typed pages, along with the photo of a young blond girl about nine years old. The kid was smiling, but her dark blue eyes looked frightened. “I suppose now you’ll give me some sort of impossible deadline to do this.”
“Not at all,” the old man said. “I understand these sorts of investigations do take some time. I will give you three weeks to locate my daughter and bring her home.”
“Why three?” Meriden asked. “Why not one, or five, or twelve?”
“Because I only have three weeks to live, Mr. Meriden,” King said calmly. “And, unless you find Alana, so do you.”
Chapter 4
T he town of Halagan, California, didn’t appear on most maps, and was barely large enough to rate a Welcome sign. The only paved road was Main Street, which curled through Halagan’s official business district, a cluster of old wood-sided buildings, one or two that dated back to the Gold Rush days, when miners came down out of the hills to buy flour, salt pork, and, if they’d panned enough that month, an hour with one of the tired whores at one of the town’s five taverns.
A few weeks ago Andrew Riordan had stopped here for gas, caught a glimpse of a for-rent sign in the window of a boardinghouse, and decided it was as good a place as any to hole up in.
His landlady, an older woman who bred horses on a ranch a few miles outside of town, had not asked for his phony references or much in the way of a deposit.
“Rent’s due on the first of the month, utilities included,” she told him briskly. “You pay for your phone calls per week. No kids or pets, no loud music, no cooking, and if you have a girlfriend by, she needs to leave before breakfast.”
“Fair enough.” He handed over his cash deposit. “Who else lives in the house?”
“Besides my good-for-nothing nephew?” Her mouth twisted. “A geologist doing some survey mapping up in the hills, one of the elementary school teachers in the middle of a nasty divorce, and Mr. Cantwell, who is collecting government disability while he tries to finish his first novel.”
Drew winced. “What’s his disability?”
“I believe he has a terminal case of lazy-ass, don’t-want-to-work syndrome.” She tucked his money
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