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Not that he didn’t want proof his daughters were still alive. Not that he didn’t need proof the way he needed air to breathe. Because if Linden and Laurel were dead, he might as well be, too.
But he didn’t know how much more of this he could take.
“Dinner,” Mei-li said, her prosaic reminder dragging his mind back from the dark side. “You need to eat something, Dirk. We all do. And since you can’t leave the suite until you get the last ransom-delivery instructions, you’d better call room service.”
“Requests?” he asked the bodyguards. “And where’s Vanessa? She might want to pick what she wants for dinner.” He turned to Mei-li. “What about Patrick? I should have told him to park the Rolls and come up, but I...”
He’d been too lost in thought, too concerned about his own problems to think about anyone else, and guilt stabbed through him. Now that he thought about it, he realized Patrick hadn’t said a word about missing classes at the university the past two days, and Dirk hadn’t even had the common courtesy to ask. He’d just assumed Patrick would be available to drive him wherever and whenever. Even though he’d suggested to Mei-li that her cousin might be involved with the kidnappers, he really didn’t believe it. There was a tiny corner of his mind that wasn’t quite convinced, however, and if Patrick was innocent Dirk would apologize...once his daughters were safely home. But assuming Patrick wasn’t guilty, he needed to respect that Patrick was doing him a tremendous favor putting himself at Dirk’s beck and call all hours of the day and night.
“He’ll be up shortly,” Mei-li assured Dirk. “Didn’t you hear him tell us when he dropped us off downstairs?”
Dirk shook his head. “No, I didn’t, but...I’m glad. What about you? Is there anything special you want?”
* * *
Room service hadn’t yet arrived when the doorbell sounded. Mei-li had been watching and waiting, and she jumped up immediately, hurrying into the foyer to answer the door. Dirk was only a second behind her.
“Delivery for Mr. DeWinter,” the man in the blue-and-gray livery said.
Dirk scrawled his signature and ripped open the envelope, not even noticing Mei-li closing the door.
“‘Tsim Sha Tsui Clock Tower, 9:00 p.m.,’” Mei-li read aloud as Dirk held the page so they could both read it at the same time.
Wait at the base of the tower and pretend to take pictures like a tourist. When you receive the phone call, you will have one minute to talk with your daughters—make it count. After you hang up, walk down the Kowloon Public Pier away from the tower. Take the first staircase down to the water’s edge and place the bag at the foot of the staircase. Leave and don’t look back. You will be contacted tomorrow. Don’t do anything stupid.
“The Clock Tower,” she murmured. “We can walk there from here—five or six minutes at the most. It’s just down Salisbury Road, not far from the Star Ferry Pier.”
“Then I don’t need Patrick to drive us.”
She shook her head. “More trouble than it’s worth.” She walked into the dining room and picked up the grocery bag with the ransom money from the table. “Better get this out of the way,” she said, sending Dirk a message with her eyes before walking toward the double doors to the study outside his bedroom. “Room service will be here soon.” She turned at the door and asked Dirk, “Where do you want me to put it?”
His face was impassive, but his eyes acknowledged that he knew she was trying to get him alone and he crossed the room with his brisk stride. “I’ll show you.”
Mei-li waited only long enough for Dirk to lock the door behind them, turn on his laptop and log into his email account in preparation for the message they knew by now would arrive shortly. Then she said, “We don’t have a lot of time before dinner gets here. And any minute there should be an email from the kidnappers,” she added, pointing at his computer, “with the latest picture of your daughters. But I wanted to finish our conversation about—”
“This shadow group you called in.”
“Yes.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know a lot about them. I only have one contact—the man who founded the organization. And I can’t tell you his name,” she said before he could ask. “I can’t.”
“But you trust him. Them.”
She nodded. “The two times I asked them for help, they came through.” She took a step toward him. “There are no guarantees, though. Past success isn’t always a predictor of future success. As I told you that first night, I can’t prom—”
