Page 112 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“Murdering bitch,” Jonathan said angrily.

“We don’t know it’s Marla,” J.J. said.

“We don’t know anything,” Jack reminded. “Let’s not speculate. Let the feds take care of it.”

“I’m surprised at you, Jack,” Jonathan said. “You can’t trust the police with your son’s life!”

“What do you propose I do about them?” Jack responded repressively, gesturing toward the federal agents. His fists clenched. He didn’t want this argument. He sure didn’t want it in front of Cissy.

“Get rid of them!” Jonathan gazed at him as if he’d never seen him before.

At that precise moment, one of the agents separated from his partners and looked into the kitchen. “We’re almost done here, Mr. Holt. Can I have a minute with you?”

Jack talked to the man, and Cissy waited in the kitchen with Jonathan and J.J. She appreciated their desire to help, but she would rather just be alone with Jack.

The agent explained the procedure if and when the kidnapper called. Jack nodded, listening but barely hearing. This was B.J.’s life they were discussing. Anything could go wrong. He wanted to kill whoever had stolen his son. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t, given the chance. But there were rules of engagement. And he damn well wasn’t going to break them. Not yet. Not while the risk was too great. Once B.J. was home. Once he was safe. Then the rules changed.

Returning to the kitchen, Jack said, “For now, we wait.”

“For the ransom call.” Cissy shivered.

Jack nodded, adding grimly, “And for our kidnapper to make a move, or a mistake, or something.”

The downtown office of Treasure Homes Realty was a narrow building hosting a luxurious windowfront reception area with a lovely, wraparound rosewood desk. But that facade was for the client who needed convincing and dazzling. The real work took place behind a solid-core door that led to rabbit-warren work spaces, of which Sybil Tomini’s was one of the largest. She, like the other agents, was part owner in the company, which didn’t amount to diddly-squat when thing

s downturned like they had just recently. Although the downturn hadn’t affected everyone. Nuh-uh. Those sharks at Luxury Unlimited were selling multi-million-dollar palaces like they were tract homes.

Sybil looked at her desk and sighed. It was covered with stacks of papers: loan docs, inspection reports, earnest money agreements. She felt like sweeping it all into the trash. It was amazing how many deals fell through when the interest rate went up a half percent. There had to be an easier way to make a living.

And the rental real-estate business was no picnic, either. She was trying to ease out of that business entirely. There just wasn’t enough money for all the problems rental units created. Whenever someone called in wanting Treasure Homes’ rental department to lease their home, she did her damnedest to convince them to sell.

Her phone buzzed. Sybil waited for the receptionist to announce what she wanted, but no such luck.

“I’m here,” Sybil reminded frostily. What was with these receptionists? This girl’s IQ had to be in negative numbers. She always buzzed and then couldn’t seem to verbalize what she wanted.

“Sybil?”

Oh for God’s sake. “Yes?”

“There’s someone here to see you. A Mrs. Owens?”

Sybil had to fight back a short bark of annoyance. She practically tugged her blunt-cut, straight black hair out of her head.

Mrs. Owens was a perfect example of why the rental market was such a losing racket. The woman was the nosiest old bag you would ever hope to meet. She lived across the street from one of Treasure Homes’ rental tenants and complained and complained about them. Worse, she’d somehow gotten Sybil’s name as the person to call.

“I’ll be right there,” Sybil said, at the same moment the receptionist said, “I’ll send her back.”

No! Sybil did not want that big mouth tottering into her work space.

She glanced down at her papers, made a sound of annoyance, then headed for the door just as Carrie, the stupidest receptionist on the planet, threw it open, nearly knocking Sybil in the teeth.

“Come on in, Mrs. Owens,” she invited in a sweety-sweety voice she reserved for the infirm or mentally disabled.

Sybil made a mental note to fire Carrie’s sorry ass immediately following Mrs. Owens’s visit.

“Hello, there,” Sybil said to the eighty-something woman. “Come right in.” She gave Carrie the evil eye, and the girl just gazed at her blankly before heading back to her desk.

Sybil closed the door behind them and wondered if she would make it through another day without a cigarette. She’d quit a month earlier. Thirty-one damn days.

---