Finders Keepers. Shirl Henke

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      Matt sniffed the heavenly aroma of greasy spice and his stomach gave a growl of gratitude. “I’m happy starving your prisoners into submission isn’t your M.O.”

      “You’re aren’t my prisoner, Mr. Granger. Now toss me back the key and take a seat.”

      He eyed the stun gun and held up the dangling handcuff. “Coulda fooled me.” He sat on a rickety orange plastic chair and reached for a slice of gooey pizza.

      “Eh, eh, eh,” she scolded. “First click the cuff to your chair leg.”

      Scowling, he obeyed, then used his left hand to dig into the food. “Sure, I forgot. The handcuffs will keep me from falling off my chair and hurting myself. I’m a patient, not a prisoner. Say, can we talk about that?” he asked around a mouthful of pepperoni.

      “You talk. I’m gonna eat,” she replied, devouring the first food she’d had in well over twelve hours.

      “You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m a reporter for the Miami Herald. I came to San Diego to research a human interest story. About women hiding from abusive husbands, mothers hiding their kids from fathers trying to kidnap them. That sort of thing. I haven’t joined a commune.” He wasn’t about to mention Renkov and the Russian mob, the real story he was working on.

      “That’s not the picture your aunt Claudia gave me.”

      “Look, my aunt has a photographic memory—but no film. She’s the one who needs a shrink, not me.”

      “I’ll let the two of you work that out with your doctors.”

      “Call the Herald news desk and ask for—”

      “Thought you said you were doing a human interest piece. The story you described is a feature, not news,” she said, wiping her mouth.

      “You have a dual major in jujitsu and journalism?” he asked, sinking his teeth into a slab of pizza and imagining it was Aunt Claudia’s jugular.

      She ignored his outburst. “Look, I’ve heard it all before. Everyone has a reason why I should let them go. Some of them are pretty good.”

      He took a deep breath, then said in his most intimidating tone, “I could sue the socks off you once we get to Boston. Even press criminal charges for kidnapping.”

      Sam remained undaunted. She tossed the paper napkin into the pizza carton, then walked over to her bag and removed a sheath of papers. “Believe me, I checked out your aunt’s story and background quite thoroughly before I took the job. I always do. Read these.” She handed him the papers.

      Matt quickly skimmed down the pages, then crumpled them in outrage. “She swore out a bench warrant on me for stealing Uncle Harvey’s engraved Rolex!”

      Sam just looked at the expensive gold watch on his wrist, saying nothing.

      “For your information, my great-uncle gave me this watch personally while his sister Claudia stood there beaming. It was a college graduation present, for chrissakes!”

      “Something else to settle with your aunt when we get back to Boston. She claims it’s a family heirloom and you had no right to take it.”

      “This is false arrest. I’ll sue you! Hell, I’ll still sue her!”

      “Lots of my retrievals threaten to sue me or have me arrested for kidnapping. Cult members—”

      “Samaritan Haven is not a cult,” he said through gritted teeth. “It isn’t even a commune—at least, not the sort you yank brainwashed kids from. It’s really more of a hiding place where people drop out of sight.” Matt leaned forward on the table and combed his fingers through his hair in utter frustration. “I only moved into the place to check out a lead.”

      He hesitated. How much should he reveal? He couldn’t endanger his source. That might get her and a number of other innocent people killed. Then again, if Samantha Ballanger had been hired by the Russian Mafia, she already knew that her targets were hiding in the complex. Finding them wouldn’t be difficult. He reconsidered. No, if that were true, he’d already be dead. He decided to take a risk.

      “You ever heard of Mikhail Renkov?”

      Sam nodded carefully. “The KGB guy who defected to the West in the last days of the Cold War? A big feather in the CIA’s hat, as I recall. Now he’s some sort of import-export millionaire, isn’t he?” Play dumb, Ballanger.

      He nodded approvingly. “You read the newspapers. What they haven’t said, yet, is that he hasn’t exactly broken all his ties to Mother Russia. He’s up to his eyeballs in all sorts of illegal stuff—playing footsie with the Russian mob, even dealing with Colombian drug cartels—and I bet he has some pals inside the Company or even in State who’re turning a blind eye.”

      “Hang on, Mel,” she interrupted, putting a hand up in dismissal. “Conspiracy Theory was a great movie—”

      “And the nutcase Gibson played was right in the end, wasn’t he? Just let me finish. Remember reading about Renkov’s son buying the farm last month?”

      “Alexi, the golf pro? Yeah, he was killed in a car bombing. Cops suspect the wife did it—to keep him from divorcing her and running off with his starlet bimbo of the month. Mrs. Renkov dropped out of sight and they’re looking for her.”

      “Yeah, the car bomb was her final project to get her electrical engineering degree. Come on, a woman car-bomber? Tess Renkov didn’t kill her husband.”

      Sam shrugged. In her checkered career she’d been a cop, paramedic and even moonlighted running down bail jumpers. What he said about the Renkov case could be true. All Pat had told her was that Granger was getting too close to a joint PD-FBI investigation of Mikhail Renkov and they wanted the reporter out of their hair.

      “Look, if a bad actor like old Mikhail thought you’d killed his only son, would you stick around and chat?” he argued doggedly. “I think his golden boy was killed by daddy’s enemies. What we have here is a turf war with billions in Eastern Bloc cash at stake.”

      “Don’t forget the drug cartels. They have lots of dough, too. But they’re not paying me. Aunt Claudia is. Maybe you can convince her about all this—after I collect my fee.” She shoved the key to the cuffs across the table so he could free his right arm from the chair.

      “A one-track mind,” he said with a sigh of resignation. Convincing this dame was as likely as riding a zebra.

      Sam watched him unlock the cuff, then took back the key and motioned him to sit on the bed. She knew he was getting tired of taking orders, but he was too sharp to try and jump her—at least just yet. He did as she asked resentfully, then watched as she smoothed out the legal papers he’d crumpled and replaced them in the bag she’d brought from the van.

      Stubborn as a stump in hard clay but one fine-looking woman, he thought. Under different circumstances… Forget it, Granger. Remember how that stun gun smarts. Then again, if he could soften her up…so to speak. What the hell, worth a try. It wasn’t as if she was a dog or anything close. In fact, she was a looker. He’d only be doing what came naturally. And so would she, if her earlier reactions to him had meant anything. Usually he read women pretty well.

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