When Twilight Comes - By B. J. Daniels Page 0,27

my way,” he said to Rico and Jolly. “I need to take this.”

Neither moved.

“He wants us to bring you to him,” Jolly said. “Now.”

Lorenzo swore silently. He didn’t want to take the call in front of these two bozos, but he also could use a little good news right now. And if Alfredo had found Jenna, then that would be good news indeed.

“Yeah?” he said, after flipping open his cell phone.

“Just checking in like you said.” Alfredo spoke in a low monotone no matter what was going on. “Found a gas station northeast of Seattle where she filled up. Clerk remembers her. She didn’t ask for directions or nothing like that, so you want me to keep looking? A lot of wild country out here.”

Lorenzo tried to hide his disappointment. “No, don’t bother. Just come on back and I’ll call you later.” He snapped the cell phone shut and looked at the two men standing in front of him, telling himself he could take them both before either of them knew what hit ’em.

But killing two more of Valencia’s men didn’t seem the best idea right now.

“So what are we waiting for? Let’s go see your boss. I’ll follow you in my car.”

“I think not,” Rico said. “Jolly will bring you back for your car after you see the boss.”

Just the thought of seeing Valencia on an empty stomach made him weak. “Mind if we stop and get breakfast along the way first? I’m starved.”

Rico chuckled. “Yeah, right.”

“We could swing through a drive-up,” Jolly suggested. “I could use a little something.”

“Fast food? Forget it,” Lorenzo said, wondering again what his ex-wife was having for breakfast and where. “I’d rather starve.”

ROSE GARCIA FLASHED her badge at Jenna Dante’s apartment house and got the manager to open up 4B.

The apartment complex was a dump on the wrong side of town. After being married to a man with as much money as Lorenzo, Jenna had definitely taken a financial nosedive.

The manager was a short, squat, middle-aged bald man who smelled of fried onions. His name, according to the piece of paper taped to the door, was Buzz Gerard.

“I got things to do,” Buzz said, scratching him self after he opened the door to Jenna Dante’s apartment.

“So go do them.” Rose stooped down to pick up the newspaper lying in the hall. She checked the date. This morning’s. “I’ll lock up when I leave,” she assured him as she stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind her.

The place was neat and clean, nothing like the apartment complex itself. No sign of a struggle, she thought with relief. Or a break-in.

But it also had an empty, I’m-not-coming-back feeling, just as Rose had feared. The kitchen was clean, holding only a few odds and ends, dishes and silverware, thrift shop stuff.

Rose opened the closet. Empty hangers, some looking as if clothes had been jerked off in a hurry. She checked the daughter’s room. Bed made. Room too neat. The bureau empty just like the closet.

Jenna had cleared out. With the girl? It appeared so. But where had she gone? And why?

Something must have spooked her.

Lorenzo, Rose thought. He’d sure as hell scared her.

Rose picked up the phone and checked caller ID. Jenna hadn’t received many calls. The most recent one was from Flannigan Investigations. Interesting. Rose jotted down the other numbers, then checked the numbers Jenna had called. One stopped her cold.

Raymond Valencia? Why would Jenna call Lorenzo’s boss?

Rose searched the rest of the apartment but didn’t find anything to indicate where Jenna had gone. Clearly, however, she wasn’t coming back.

Every instinct told Rose that Jenna Dante was in over her head. Maybe in more trouble than Jenna knew, if she was involved with Raymond Valencia.

RAYMOND VALENCIA WAS IN his greenhouse when he heard Jolly and Rico return. Rico had called to say they were bringing Lorenzo Dante with them.

Picking several of the finer tomatoes for lunch, Raymond left the greenhouse, the one place he found any kind of peace.

In the kitchen he gave the tomatoes to the cook, then found Jolly and Rico waiting in the den. Lorenzo had made himself at home in one of the leather chairs by the fireplace. He was slumped down a little, an ankle resting on his knee, his hand fiddling with the tassel on his Italian loafers as if he was bored. Or nervous.

He stopped fiddling the moment Raymond walked into the room. Nervous, Raymond decided. Very nervous. What had Lorenzo done? Raymond hated to think.