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“The majority of the time, child abductions are done by family members. In those cases, the child is usually returned unharmed. When the kidnapper is a stranger, the recovery rate is about fifty-fifty.” Stanford’s voice was strained as he said, “Call it passion or maybe obsession, but I believe that the more child predators I can take down, the safer the world is for my three kids.”
Chapter 83
“HOW ABOUT KEEPING ME COMPANY over dinner?” Stanford suggested.
Our waiter brought menus to the table, and as the eight o’clock flight to SFO had just departed without us, we took Stanford up on his offer.
The agent ordered a bottle of pinot grigio, and Conklin and I filled him in on what we knew about Paola Ricci’s abduction and murder.
“Honestly, we’re stuck,” I told Stanford. “Our dead ends are turning up even more dead ends. We’re in about the fifth generation of dead ends.”
Our steaks arrived, and Stanford ordered another bottle of wine. And for the first time that long day, I finally relaxed, glad for the company and the chance to brainstorm while listening to the country-and-western music floating in from the live band in the lounge.
I was also becoming aware of Conklin’s long legs next to mine under the table, his brown suede jacket brushing up against my arm, the now familiar cadence of his voice, and the wine slipping smoothly down my throat as the evening flowed into night.
At around 9:15, Dave Stanford picked up the tab, told us that he’d keep us posted after the Rays’ phone records were dumped and that he’d alert us of anything that could help us with the Ricci/Tyler case.
We’d missed another flight back to San Francisco, and as Rich and I said good-bye to Stanford, we prepared ourselves for an hour’s wait outside the United Airlines gate.
We were almost out the door when the band kicked up something from the Kenny Chesney collection, and the girl singer began exhorting the patrons into a line dance.
The bar crowd was made up of smashed young road warriors and airline personnel, and they started getting into the dance — a new spin on the Electric Slide.
Rich smiled and said, “You wanna get stupid out there?” and I grinned back, saying, “Sure. Why the heck not?”
I followed Rich’s lead onto the dance floor and into a good time, hustling to the music, bumping into giddy strangers, and best of all laughing.
It had been a while since I’d doubled over with belly laughs, and it felt great.
When the song ended, the crooner unhooked the mic from the stand, licked her lips, and sang along with the guy at the electric piano as he played “Lyin’ Eyes.”
Couples paired up. When Rich stretched out his arms, I stepped in close. My God, my God, it felt so good to have Richie Conklin’s arms around me.
The room was spinning a little, so I closed my eyes and held on to him, the space between us closing because there was just no room to move on that little dance floor. I even stretched up onto my toes to rest my head on his shoulder — and he gripped me more tightly.
When the music stopped, Rich said, “Man, I really don’t want to go to the airport, do you?”
I remember saying that a case could be made that at that late hour, after the long workday and, by the way, having drunk a whole lot of wine, we had several bona fide, expense-reportable reasons to spend the night in LA.
Still, I was torn as I handed my credit card to the desk clerk at the Marriott LAX, telling myself this didn’t mean a thing
. I wasn’t going to do anything but go to my room and sleep. That was all.
Rich and I stood at opposite sides of the elevator, a weary couple between us, as the mirrored car climbed ten silent flights. I hated to admit it, but I missed being in his arms.
When we stepped out of the elevator, I said, “Good night, Rich.” Then I turned my back on him as I slipped the key card into the slot, aware that he was now doing the same in a door across the hall.
“See you in the morning, Lindsay.”
“Sure thing. Sleep tight, Richie.”
The tiny green light went on, and the door handle opened under my hand.
Chapter 84
I CLOSED AND BOLTED THE DOOR to my room, my mind reeling with longing and desire, relief and regret. I stripped off my clothes, and a minute later, the blood was pounding in my temples as I stood under the hot spray of the shower.
Clean and glowing pink, I buffed my body with warm terry-cloth towels and blew my hair dry. I toweled the steam off the mirror over the sink and assessed my naked self. I still looked young and good and desirable. My breasts were firm, my tummy flat, and my sandy blond hair cascaded in waves to below my shoulders.
