garage in Tate’s building, then jumped out of the vehicle and climbed onto his rebuilt Suzuki GSX. He docked his GPS just above the speedometer and squealed out of the garage, heading toward Long Island. He wasn’t exactly sure where Brody lived, but he thought it might be Little Neck.
Didn’t matter. He was following the purse. Brody had no reason to scan Tate for a GPS, so he had no need to get rid of her purse. Even if the pervert wanted to take her clothes, they’d still be in the van.
Trouble was, it was Friday and it was four-thirty, and the expressway was a parking lot. He could get around the cars all right, but there was a great chance he could be popped in the process. The last thing he needed now was to have to explain this to the highway patrol.
He inched the bike forward and thought again about Brody. The man wasn’t exactly living on his performance art, despite charging an arm and a leg for his kidnappings. Michael knew Tate had already given him ten grand—half the fee. But Brody himself lived off his wife’s income. She was some big cosmetic surgeon who Botoxed politicos and movie stars. She was why he could afford to play with his art.
As he put his leg down once again to wait for traffic to move, he watched the blip on the GPS moving steadily forward on the same expressway, only about ten miles ahead.
Screw it. He’d explain to the police if he had to. In the meantime, he was gonna find Tate.
Swerving the bike into the fire lane, he gunned it. He tried to keep an eye out for cops, but between looking at the signal and trying not to be killed by motorists, he had his hands full.
There was a car stuck in his way a few miles in, so he went back into traffic. Despite the laws against it in New York, he did the bob and weave, skating past SUVs and Toyotas with a couple of inches to spare.
He couldn’t understand how the van was making such good time, but as the minutes ticked by and the GPS kept purring, he closed the distance.
Just as he thought he might get a visual, he heard the dreaded sound of a police siren.
Glancing back, he saw the NYHP coming up the fire lane.
Michael slowed down and found himself a nice place to idle right in front of a grocery truck. Traffic moved at about five miles an hour, and he just stayed put, preparing his explanation.
The blip on the GPS went farther away with each painstaking inch, and so did the siren. Finally he saw the lights in his side mirror. Even the cops weren’t going very fast. When they reached his side, they didn’t stop, and he let out a held breath. They were after something else, an accident probably, but with them so close he didn’t dare pull any stunts.
He tried to be patient. He wasn’t successful.
TATE WOKE, STILL IN the darkness of the rocking vehicle. She had no moisture at all in her throat and she felt as if she would choke to death. She tried to cry out again, to tell them they had it wrong, but she couldn’t.
Her tears felt hot on her cheeks as her heart pumped beyond its endurance. She thought of her father, how furious he would be at her for getting herself into this mess. How he would have to live with the fact that her death was her own fault.
She thought of Michael and how all this could have been prevented if she hadn’t been so vain. He would have stopped this, he would have saved her.
She’d wasted so much of her life, only to end up throwing her life away on a stunt. On this idiotic game.
What she didn’t understand is why they weren’t following the agreement. Brody had signed the contract. Didn’t he realize he’d be in trouble once they discovered he’d ignored the rules?
She gasped again, licked a tear off her lip. She would give anything, any amount of money, if only they would let her go. She’d never do anything this stupid again. She’d be good, she’d pray every night, she’d—
The truck turned, causing her to roll to her right, then stabilize again. Maybe they were close to wherever they were taking her. They’d have to listen then, wouldn’t they?
But she probably wasn’t going to make it. Not when she couldn’t catch her breath. Not when her chest was about to explode. It was over. Her life was ending. What a pathetic waste.
IT HAD BEEN AN accident, a big one. Two SUVs, one overturned, a fire truck, an ambulance and several patrol cars. Michael had no choice but to wait until he’d passed the worst of it before he could even get to a decent speed.
The van was already past it all. It had turned off the expressway onto the surface streets of Port Washington. He knew the area, but not well.
By the time he got to the right exit he saw the van heading toward Sands Point. According to Michael’s research, neither Brody nor the wife were Sands Point rich. Hell, he knew of one estate that was for sale there right now—price tag of twenty-eight million. That was William Baxter territory, and it didn’t sit right.
The traffic wasn’t all that great even now that he was off the LIE. Too many commuters coming in from the city, trying to make it to their nice Long Island homes. The blip on the GPS had stalled. He lifted the unit from the cradle and pressed a couple of buttons. Seacoast Lane. That was on the very edge of Sands Point.
He’d driven Tate to Sands Point once about four months ago, to a literary luncheon given by an author who lived there. Susan somebody. Tate and he had talked about the village. She’d told him that there were no stores of any kind in Sands Point. Only homes and gardens and an animal shelter. The residents—who included the CEO of a large pharmaceutical company, a former governor of New York and the family that owned the estate that many believe was the inspiration for “East Egg” in Fitzgerald’s Gatsby—were all rich enough that they could live in this garden suburb where the gates and the security guards kept out all but the anointed.
None of that colorful history helped him now. He drove past well-tended yards and kids toting backpacks filled to the limit. Even the frequent suburban stops didn’t slow him down as much as the expressway traffic, and soon he was in Port Washington, the town that supported the wealthy lives of those who lived in Sands Point.
It was all so peaceful out here. No honking horns, hardly any pedestrians on the main street. Only twenty-five miles from Manhattan, it felt like another world.
As he approached the gated community, Michael turned his attention to his GPS screen. The blip had stayed right there at Seacoast. He pressed another button, moving in on the target.
Not a second later he was looking at an aerial view of 200 Seacoast. It was a huge estate with only one big semicircular road in and out. The house looked large enough to supply a battalion, and the grounds were expansive. It had to be at least twenty acres. The estate was also surrounded on three sides by Long Island Sound.
Michael put all his concentration now on getting to Seacoast. First he had to get past the guards, but that was ridiculously simple. He followed another motorcycle—one with a teenager driving—gave the guard a wave and that was that. Then he found the estate, and it was just as impressive as the GPS had indicated.
Ditching his bike was simple in the vast acres of old trees. The last thing he wanted was for Brody to get wind of this rescue and pull some other stupid stunt. By the time he was finished, no one would find his bike.
He had his gun just in case he needed to get pushy. And he had his GPS, but now he used his old-school skills to lead
