question.
“You got the cash?”
As Tiffany’s eyes tried to pierce the darkness and get a better read on the mystery man with the gun, Lane answered the question. “The money’s in the bag. Now, where are the files Mr. Elrod needs?”
“They’re on a table about ten feet to your right. By the way, I have a gun trained on you and my eyes are accustomed to the dark. If you try anything you’ll be dead before your weapon clears your belt.”
Though the man’s voice was deep, his accent was nondescript. He could have been from anywhere.
“How can I see if the files are legit?” Lane asked. “I’ll need some light to study them.”
“You’ll have to take my word.” Their host’s matter-of-fact reply firmly reinforced there would be no compromise. Thus, the stall Lane had put in his plans, those precious minutes when he would study the files while everyone waited and watched, had now been edited out of the script. It was now time to ad-lib and Tiffany had no faith in her temporary partner’s ability to do that. So, in retrospect, she now fully realized she should have penned the plan.
“What about the woman?” the cop asked as he moved across the floor to a small table barely visible in the dim light.
“Grab the files, get in your car, and leave her here. That was the deal.” The host paused before adding, “And don’t try to be a hero. If you pull a gun, you’ll die and so will the woman. The only way you’re walking out is with her staying with me.”
Lane picked up the documents and glanced back toward the host, “What are you going to do with her?”
“If I don’t see that car drive off in the next two minutes, I’ll kill the dame. So, if you want her to keep breathing, get moving.”
When the cop froze, Tiffany knew what was holding him in place. He was thinking about making a play for his gun, and that was definitely not a part of the plan. The last thing she needed was Lane taking a bullet for her. If he managed to live through the experience, he’d never let her forget it. So, she had to get him back on track.
“Get going,” she spat. “I’m tired of having your paws on me.”
“You heard her,” their host growled.
Lane moved quickly to the door and took a final look at Tiffany before opening the entry and rushing off the porch and to the car. She took a deep breath as she heard the Ford’s engine come to life. At least for the moment, they were back on script. Still, as the vehicle eased forward her heart leapt into her throat.
“Okay, baby,” the man announced, “my car’s waiting in the back alley. Move out the door and lead the way into the backyard. When we get to the vehicle, you slide behind the wheel. You’ll be driving. And don’t try anything. I’ve got a forty-five ready to blow a hole in you the size of Lake Michigan.”
This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go down. Everything was theoretically to take place in this house. Their leaving now wouldn’t give Lane the time to drive two blocks, park his car, make his way back to the scene to observe what was going on, and then, like the cavalry, rush in to save her. Thus, the second facet of the less-than-brilliant man’s plan had been destroyed. As she considered her options, she thought about her host’s warning. Would he really shoot her?
“Listen,” she quipped, hoping her voice didn’t reflect how much her knees were shaking, “I really need to warm up a bit before I go back out again.”
“Get moving,” the man barked.
“Would it be all right if I used the bathroom,” she hurriedly added. “I’ve been drinking coffee all night to stay warm and . . .”
He didn’t give her a chance to finish before spitting out what appeared to be his final ultimatum. “Get moving or die on this floor. It’s up to you.”
“Great plan, Lane,” Tiffany muttered as she turned, opened the front door, and slowly marched out onto the porch. She momentarily stopped at the steps, grasping for a way to buy another minute, when she felt a gun in her back.
“Baby, nobody can see you,” the gunman announced. “Everyone on this street goes to bed by ten. So keep moving.”
Sensing she had no choice, Tiffany walked out into the now driving snow and around the side of the small home. This time her fear kept her from feeling the Arctic cold. It was 104 steps, she knew because she counted each of them, before she arrived at a 1939 Oldsmobile coupe. After opening the passenger door, she slid across the cloth-covered seat, dragging her huge purse behind her, and over to the steering wheel. Before she could take a breath, he was beside her, the gun aimed at her ribs.
“The key’s in the ignition,” he barked, “start the car up and let’s get moving.”
Her gloved hand found the key. After switching it to the right, she pulled out the manual choke, pressed the gas pedal two times, and pushed the starter button. The car’s six-cylinder turned right over and caught. After pulling out the light switch, she pushed the choke halfway in, depressed the clutch, shifted the car into first, lifted her left foot, and eased forward.
“Turn right at the corner,” the man ordered. “You’re going to go across town until you get to Lake Shore Drive, then you’ll head north.”
“Where we going?” she asked as she switched on the wipers to knock the snow off the windshield.
“Somewhere your boyfriend can’t find us.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she shot back.
“Fine,” came the gruff reply, “he’s a cop. His name is Lane Walker, there’s no use denying it. Still, he didn’t get a good look at me, he’s not on our trail, and as I have both you and the money, I’m not worried about much of anything now. Yet, I am sorry that I won’t see his face when he discovers that the house is empty.” The gunman chuckled, “I’d love to watch him as he runs a couple of blocks back to his car in a futile effort to catch up to us. Walker has always been a day late and a dollar short.”
“You know him well,” Tiffany quipped as she shook her head. No matter how she cut it, she was getting just what she deserved. Once again, Lane Walker was standing her up.
Chapter 7
7
Thursday, December 19, 1946
1:27 A.m.
Within five minutes of having Lane’s plan go terribly wrong, Tiffany’s heart rate returned to normal. With both hands on the wheel and her eyes watching carefully for ice, she silently navigated the Windy City’s all-but-deserted streets for twenty minutes until she finally made the left onto Lake Shore Drive. It was only then the driving snow let up, giving the woman a chance to relax and reflect.
Her captor obviously knew Lane. How? Had the guy with the shiny gun been on the police force? Had he been arrested sometime in the last year? Maybe he and the cop had met in the service. Perhaps they had even been part of the same unit. Yet, before she felt she could dig into that area, she had to focus on the one thing she did know. The gunman apparently believed she was the blonde he’d been assigned to pick up. But for what purpose? Did he need information she was supposed to
