ABBY SLID CLOSER to the door, cupping her hands over her ear and putting them close to the corrugated metal, praying Napier didn’t hear her. The person had stopped moving. Was he still out there?
Barely breathing, Abby moved closer to the side seam, a small crack where she could feel a slight breeze.
“Is somebody there?” she whispered.
Scrape, scrape.
“Who’s there? I need help.”
“Detective Hart?”
Abby nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the answering whisper. “Yes! Who’s there?” So intent was she straining to hear someone speak she didn’t hear Napier get up until he was right next to her.
She looked up to see a gun pointed at her head.
“Shush,” he hissed as he stepped back and grabbed the door handle with his free hand and pulled. As soon as the door was up, he began firing.
“What?” Luke stared at Victoria Napier. “How could you know where he is?”
“Because I know him. When I heard about the incident here, I began searching. He would have a backup plan, a hiding place, and I found it.”
Luke sucked in a breath, working to control the seething anger within. “The incident? Orson has been shot, Abby kidnapped, and Woody has a bomb around his neck. I think that’s a little more than an incident.”
“I know, I know, and I understand your anger. Why do you think I brought you along? You get to catch him. You get to save the girl and catch the bad guy. Don’t you want that?”
“Of course I want that. But I want it the right way.”
“The right way is the way that succeeds.”
Luke stopped himself from saying any more. The look in Victoria’s good eye was bracingly cold, borderline maniacal. She held all the cards. He didn’t have any options here but to go along and pray that she was right and that they would find Napier. He wanted Abby back and safe, and Woody himself had postulated that Napier had a hiding place. Kudos to Victoria if she really had found it.
He wasn’t armed, had never wanted a concealed carry permit, and he knew that Napier was armed and not afraid to shoot. The survivalist in him looked around the car, wondering if Victoria had a plan to confront her husband.
Working to calm himself, he pointed to the computer. “Where is he?”
“I guessed that he would have an escape plan, a place to run to if he felt I was close. When he ran away with Detective Hart like he did, I knew he was not simply fleeing aimlessly.”
“And?”
“I did a public records search for property.”
“But he’d be stupid to use his name on a property purchase.”
“You’re right; he didn’t. He purchased it under the name of a fake corporation. BHL Investments. I’ve found it: a storage facility in a place called Lost Hills.”
“How?” Luke frowned. “How could you know that?”
“The facility was bought ten years ago and never used again. I’ve read through pages of records. He bought it, kicked everyone out, then closed the place but never used it for anything. He used the initials BHL, the second, eighth, and twelfth letters of the alphabet. He’s been obsessed with the numbers two, six, and four for as long as I’ve known him. Two gets us the letter B; add six, and we get H; four more and we’re at L.”
“Suppose you’re right, and he is there. What do you plan to do?”
“What I’ve told you,” she said, sounding like a teacher lecturing a dense student. “Let you rescue the girl and catch the bad guy.”
Victoria resumed studying her computer, and Luke sat back, wondering if she were certifiably 5150, police slang for crazy. He prayed for Abby, that she was safe and would stay that way until Napier was caught. Then he prayed for himself, for the wisdom to do the right thing if Victoria was, in fact, leading them to the fugitive.