Page 116 of Blow Me Down
“I can’t shut him out. He’s using Corbin’s password to access the accounts, so the bank’s software thinks it’s really Corbin.”
Holder swore.
“What’s Paul’s address?” I asked as he argued with the police. He continued his attempt to convince them of the gravity of the situation while scribbling an address on a sticky notepad. I snatched the top page off it and headed for the front door.
“Fine, we’ll just see you in court when his mangled body is found because you wouldn’t do anything for forty-eight hours!” Holder snarled into the phone, slamming it down to run after me. “Wait, Amy, you can’t go there alone. You need backup.”
“No, this is what I need,” I said, snatching a heavy scimitar off the wall. The blade gleamed wickedly in the sunlight pouring in through the glass panels on either side of the front door. “But you’re welcome to come, too.”
Holder sighed as he took a matching scimitar, hurrying after me as I leaped down the stairs to the path that led to the detached garage. “A sword, Amy?
Those who live by the sword die by the sword, remember. This is real life, honey. If you shove a sword into someone here, you’re going to go to jail.”
“Yeah, well, after the last few virtual weeks spent with a sword strapped to my hip, I just feel a lot more comfy with one at hand,” I answered, tossing the scimitar onto the backseat of my car before scooting behind the wheel. “Jump in if you’re coming; otherwise, watch your toes.”
Holder leaped into the car as I started it, grousing as he strapped himself in that I was just like Corbin, determined to be the hero at every opportunity.
“I’d settle for justhavingthe hero,” I muttered and tried to push down my fears for Corbin so I could concentrate on driving safely.
It turned out that Paul lived a good hour’s drive away, at the foothills of a nearby mountain range, in a suburb of yet another high-tech town. The ride there was ample time for me to envision all sorts of horrible scenarios involving Corbin, visions of him lying dead or near fatally wounded while the evil Paul danced around him waving his bank account statements filling my brain with morbid frequency. Holder tried alternately to reach Paul (he just got voice mail) and to reason with the police, but they were sticking to their policy of investigating disappearances only after a certain length of time had passed.
“They say the only way they will send someone out to Paul’s house is if we have actual proof of a crime. Speculation isn’t enough. Damn, what happened to the police state where you used to be able to send cops out to check up on someone without having anything more than a gut feeling?”
“Someone is going to have more than a feeling in his gut if I find he’s harmed Corbin,” I muttered. The rest of the ride was in silence, Holder confining himself to consulting the GPS unit on his Palm Pilot and giving me occasional directions.
“Game plan?” Holder asked, breaking the quiet as he directed me down a street. “His house should be the third one on the left.”
“The game plan is we go in, rescue Corbin, and call the police to haul Paul’s ass to jail.” I pulled into the driveway of a typical sixties housing tract rambler, staring at the blank windows for a moment as if they’d give me a clue to Corbin’s well-being.
“So in other words, no game plan.”
“Just that big ole can of whoop ass you mentioned earlier,” I answered, snatching the scimitar off the backseat. “Ready?”
He twirled his scimitar and saluted me with it. “Aye, aye, Captain. Lead on.”
“You know, I find it refreshing that you don’t want to take charge and try to protect me or any of that sexist crap,” I said as we marched up to the front door.
“I’ve been married far too long to have any false impressions as to the supposed frailty of females,” he answered with a slight smile. “My wife has a black belt.
She can kick my ass all the way to Cleveland and back.”
“I like her already. Damn. Door’s locked.”
“You didn’t even knock,” he said, a slightly shocked look on his face.
“You don’t knock on the door of a kidnapper’s house,” I argued as I followed stepping-stones around to a wooden fence that surrounded the backyard.
“Haven’t you ever watchedCops?”
“Wife won’t let me. She says it instills too many bad ideas of male dominance in my mind. Um. Amy, just playing devil’s advocate here. What if Corbin isn’t here? What if Paul isn’t the one moving Corbin’s money around?”
I opened the gate to the backyard, pausing to say over my shoulder, “Then I will apologize profusely to Paul and probably get charged with breaking and entering, which I won’t fight. But I don’t think that’s likely.”
“Nor do I, but I just felt like someone had to be the voice of reason here.”
“Shhhh. Eek!” A fat spaniel waddled out of a small doghouse on the edge of a cement patio, wagging its stubby tail like mad at me. I squatted down to give it a couple of quick pats, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to make friends with an animal that might send up an alarm, not that the old dog seemed to be the least bit inclined to bark. Holder paused to pat as well, then we ducked down under a couple of windows to sidle up to a set of French doors. I took a quick peek in the doors, then slid a cautious hand to try the handle, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors opened with a soft click. We found ourselves in a formal dining area.
“What now?” Holder whispered as we skirted the dining table.
