Stolen. Part 43

Again, not being in the office didn't mean something was wrong. In fact, that she'd informed her employer she would be out told Patrick there was nothing to worry about.

Except ... he had to talk to her. Find out what she was doing and give Mrs. Santana peace of mind. Give her a piece of his mind, too. He would never have needlessly worried his mom, as a kid or as an adult. He'd been a cop and now worked for the private security firm of Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid, and when he was going to be unreachable for more than a day, he made sure his family knew his plans. It was common courtesy.

He rounded the corner of Gabrielle's narrow street, not wider than an alley. One car could barely fit. The buildings were a mix of very old and renovated. Mostly businesses, with apartments upstairs. In Gabrielle's converted warehouse, the heavy metal door was accessible only by a keypad. A sign indicated that the lobby was open from 6 a.m. until 6 p.m.

Patrick rang her buzzer. No answer. He tried her cell phone number-she didn't have a landline in her name-again, no answer. He looked around for an external security camera and didn't see any. He easily hacked the keypad and the door opened.

Sean had taught him a lot of tricks over the years, and the former cop in Patrick winced at breaking and entering. Though, as Sean would say, he wasn't breaking anything.

It took Patrick a few minutes to get his bearings. First, he was surprised at the quiet. Even the traffic from the interstate a few blocks away had dimmed once he stepped inside. Music faintly played from somewhere upstairs. The lobby was a small square with mailboxes-sixteen-built into the wall. Eight of them were larger boxes labeled with business names-a realtor, an interior decorator, and similar white-collar professions. The other eight were narrow and had last names only. Bruce. Carmichael. Santana, in Unit 12.

The building was a mix of new and old, with the warehouse structure built out, but the polished concrete floors made the place feel cold and sterile. The staircase upstairs was metal-new and reinforced, but it also added to the cool interior. It was probably young and trendy, but Patrick s.h.i.+vered. The building seemed lonely, if a building could feel anything.

On the second landing he found Unit 12 in the far back corner. He knocked on the door and silently swore. It was solid metal. He rang the bell.

No one came.

Patrick tried the door, not expecting it to open, but it did. Gabrielle left her apartment unlocked? Even in a semi-secure building, he'd never leave his door open.

He pushed open the door and glanced around before entering. The entry was small and narrow. It was completely dark. He called out, "h.e.l.lo? Gabrielle?", then felt along the wall and found a light switch. This lit up not only the entry, but lights in the living room. A short staircase led to a large room with lush, bright throw rugs tossed haphazardly across most of the cement floor. The exterior walls were brick; one was embedded with small, square warehouse windows; the other was dotted with bright and wild contemporary art. The raised, galley-style kitchen included a long, low bar with two benches. The ceiling was more than twenty-five feet high. A spiral staircase led to a loft above the kitchen. Small, but the ceilings and wall of windows made it seem much bigger.

Patrick felt like an idiot standing in the middle of Gabrielle Santana's apartment. Nothing appeared out of place. Two mismatched couches that looked comfortable. Several bean-bag chairs. Scuffed coffee table covered with books and magazines. He tilted his head. One side of the table was definitely shorter.

"Gabrielle?" he called out. "It's Patrick Kincaid from San Diego. Your door was open."

Nothing.

The living room was just that, no work or desk area. He didn't want to roam through her house, he already felt uncomfortable being here. He went into the kitchen and rummaged through a couple drawers before he found a sales flyer. He turned it over, pulled a pen from his pocket, and started writing a note. What was he going to say? To phone home? To call him?

He jotted down his name and number and put it under a magnet for Chinese take-out on the refrigerator.

Still, the unlocked door made him nervous. He went up the stairs to the loft to make sure there was no sign of anyone breaking in.

The loft was two long, narrow rooms, both of which looked down into the living room at different angles, with a bathroom between them. One was Gabrielle's bedroom, one her office. Gabrielle's bed was unmade, clothes strewn all over a chair in the corner, make-up and other girl things covering the dresser. In the den was a couch that had a pillow and sleeping bag open on it. Company?

But there was no blood, no sign of anyone searching the place to suggest a robbery.

He went back downstairs just as Gabrielle-wow, she'd gone from stunning to gorgeous, but he'd have recognized her anywhere-was running up the short staircase from the entry. She glanced at him, green eyes wide with shock, then turned and ran back out the front door.

"Gabrielle! It's Patrick Kincaid!"

His words were cut off by the metal door slamming shut.

d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n! He'd scared her, and that made him feel like s.h.i.+t.

He ran after her.

As soon as he opened the door, he was. .h.i.t over the head and pushed down, and something hard was pressed against his back.

Solely on instinct, he kicked his legs, rolled over, and flipped his attacker, his hand grabbing the wrist that held the weapon he knew wasn't a gun.

It was a cell phone.

"Dammit, Gabrielle! It's Patrick Kincaid."

She stared at him blankly. He jumped up, holding out his hand for her. She didn't take it.

"The cell phone would protect you better if you called nine-one-one."

Recognition crossed her stunned expression, and she got up on her own and grabbed her phone from his hand. "Patrick? Kincaid? What the h.e.l.l are you doing here? And in my apartment?"

"The door was unlocked."

"So you just walked in?"

"Your mother sent me."

"My mother?"

He rolled his eyes and brushed off his slacks. "Can I come in?"

"You already have." She glared at him and opened the door.

He followed her. "Gabrielle-I'm sorry, but-"

"Elle."

"Excuse me?"

"Only my family calls me Gabrielle. As soon as I went to college, I changed my name. It's Elle."

"Like the letter 'L.'"

"Like the last syllable of my name," she snapped.

"Elle, I'm sorry. Really. Your mother was worried because she couldn't reach you-"

"And you came all the way from San Diego? No-wait-you live cross country now, don't you?"

"Was.h.i.+ngton. But I was in Sacramento."

"So you drove two hours just to check on me?"

"Your mother is worried-" he said again.

"Because I said I couldn't come home for Christmas? Jeez!" She tossed her hands in the air, then scratched the back of her head as if she was still confused.

"Because," Patrick said, "she's left a dozen messages and you haven't called her back. And your employer said you took vacation time."

"I'm thirty-two years old and my mother is sending a cop after me because I don't answer my phone."

"I'm not a cop. I'm a family friend."

"Tell her I'm fine. Thank you. Good-bye."

Elle seemed agitated, over and beyond her irritation that Patrick had been in her apartment.

"What's wrong?"

She gave him a puzzled look. "What's wrong?"

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Deflect. I ask questions. You don't answer them."

"I have a lot going on, Patrick." She spread her arms wide and spun in a circle. "Take a good look. Tell my mother I'm alive and well."

"Call her."

"I will."

"Now."

She scrunched up her nose. "I haven't seen you in, like, ten, twelve years and you break into my house and order me to call my mother?" She laughed, but it sounded strained.

Patrick didn't want to get in the middle of a family squabble, because he was getting the distinct impression that this was all about family, and family-even a close clan like the Kincaids or the Santanas-could drive anyone crazy.

When she realized that he was serious and that she was still holding her phone, she made a production of punching the b.u.t.tons. A moment later Patrick could hear a loud Gabrielle! on the other end of the line.

"Mama, I can't believe you sent Patrick Kincaid to track me down. I am so embarra.s.sed!"

She didn't look embarra.s.sed; she looked p.i.s.sed.

"I told you, I have to work. It's an important case, I can't take the time off."

Patrick raised his eyebrow, but Elle wasn't paying attention. She listened to her mother talk, then both of them started talking in rapid Spanish. Patrick wasn't as conversational in the language as his younger sister, but he'd been raised by a Cuban mother so he had a grasp of Spanish. And the conversation was rapidly deteriorating as Elle explained why she had to spend Christmas preparing for a case, and why it was important, and that she couldn't do it in San Diego because she needed access to her law office.

And the entire time, Patrick had the strong impression that she was lying. And not just because her employer had said she had taken vacation time.

"I love you, too, Mama. I'm sorry-I'll visit as soon as I can. I know it's not the same as Christmas-I know, it's been two years-Mama, please, I feel bad already. Yes. I promise." She hung up. "There," she said to Patrick. "Satisfied?"

"I did my job," he said. "But why did you lie to your mother?"

"What? I didn't. I am working."

"Your law firm said you were on vacation."

"I don't need to explain myself to you-look, Patrick, I really have to go."

"You just got home."

"Because I needed to get some things."

The buzzer rang and Elle briefly looked like a deer caught in headlights. She ran to her front door and pressed a b.u.t.ton on the panel. A screen with a black-and-white image popped up. An Asian woman in jeans and a long, wool coat was at the door. She rang the buzzer again.

"s.h.i.+t, what's she doing here?" Elle backed away from the door as if it were about to attack.

"Who is she?"

"A social worker. d.a.m.n, I have to wait until she leaves. This is the worst day in my life!"

Patrick knew he was going to regret it, but he said, "Can I help?"

"No!"

"What does she want?"

"Something I can't give her." Her cell phone rang and Elle looked at it. "She's calling me now. Dammit!" She then glanced at Patrick and said, "Tell her we're not here."

"We?"

"She's going to ask about Jami. Tell her Jami and I went out and you don't know when we'll be back. Look, I can't lie to her, but you can!" She tossed Patrick her phone.

Skeptical, and wholly uncomfortable with what Elle asked him to do, he answered the phone. "Santana residence."

"Is Gabrielle Santana there?"

"I'm sorry, who's calling?"

"Lea Chin, I need to come up."

"I'm sorry, I'm not supposed to let anyone inside while Gabrielle isn't home."

"Who's this?"

"Who's this?"

"Lea Chin, with the San Francisco Department of Child Welfare. I need to inspect the apartment, and Ms. Santana has been avoiding me. Where's Jami?"

Elle had leaned close to him to hear both sides of the conversation better. Lea Chin had a much softer voice than Mrs. Santana.

"Not here either."

"And you are?"

"A friend."