“A living saint. Tell him about Nancy, Angelica,” Romina prompted.
“Nancy Portland is from a wealthy, well-respected family and has been happily married for years,” Angelica said, turning to gaze into Flynt’s eyes.
She leaned forward. The table was so small that her action brought them back into close proximity. Her shoulder brushed his arm; her thigh touched his. This time Angelica didn’t jerk away. Flynt could tell by the fervid glow in her eyes that her subject was so important to her that nothing could divert her.
He wished he were similarly preoccupied. But the controversial Nancy Portland did not engage his interest the way Angelica did.
Prickles of heat shot through him. The sizzling sexual awareness he felt in her presence caused Searcy and the others to fade into irrelevance. Flynt could see and hear only Angelica.
“Nancy is smart and brave and a brilliant organizer,” Angelica said, her face rapt with admiration. “She lives in Tampa and heads an underground of secret safe houses all over the country where women running from their former abusive spouses can hide with their children. The mothers and kids are supplied with false identity papers and are often helped financially when it becomes necessary to leave one safe house for another.”
“Portland’s blatantly anti-male! She’s never helped a father and kids running away from a physically abusive mother,” shouted Searcy. “As for the sexual abuse allegations, Nancy Portland doesn’t even try to learn the true facts. She believes whatever trumped-up tales these women concoct to get her to help them.”
“It’s true Nancy doesn’t help men,” Romina confirmed. “Because men are the ones with the power and the money and the connections. Nancy helps women because they’re powerless with nowhere else to turn.”
“But before she gets involved in any case, Nancy Portland interviews the women and their children,” Angelica put in. “She can tell who is lying, she knows if the children are genuinely scared of their fathers and want to get away. Nancy won’t assist a woman making false accusations. She’ll turn them away and advise them to work things out with the children’s fathers.”
“That’s not what she told Darlene Carson who’s made plenty of false accusations about my client and brainwashed their kids against him,” Searcy raged. “Ted Carson won legal custody of their two daughters, now aged six and seven, after a bitter divorce. The kids went missing with that lunatic Darlene a year-and-a-half ago, and Ted hired me to find them after the initial police investigation went nowhere. I traced them to Birmingham two days ago. And Birmingham, of course, means Romina Carroll. But now—” He threw his hands up in the air and cursed some more.
“You traced them to Birmingham, then assumed they were with Romina?” Flynt repeated slowly. “Why?”
It seemed an unlikely assumption to make. The neighborhood was crowded, and he’d learned from his own inquiries that a number of residents spent a lot of time at their windows, watching the comings and goings on the street.
How could women and children be smuggled in and out without others knowing about it? And when a number of people viewed strange happenings, they liked to talk about them. Flynt had learned that basic investigatory truth early on. Conspiracy buffs to the contrary, the idea of a vast collusion of silence about anything was extremely improbable.
And this house was so small! Though he hadn’t seen the upstairs, the area couldn’t exceed the size of the rooms downstairs—the cramped living room, the eat-in kitchen, and tiny vestibule. Keeping extra people hidden without a trace required a mansion, and this tidy little box simply didn’t fit the bill.
Flynt stared at Romina. What in her background had contributed to her seeming beyond-the-ordinary with sympathy for runaway women? Romina was an activist; he certainly hadn’t expected that when he was doing his cursory case legwork. His musing carried him one step further. How had Romina’s children—including Brandon’s daughter!—been affected by what they’d seen and experienced from their mother’s cause?
“Good question, Flynt!” Romina exclaimed, her voice piercing his reverie. “For the past three years, we’ve had to endure these raids because Searcy and other paid snoops show up in Birmingham and work the cops and local field agents into an uproar. Do you know there’s been a tap on my phone for the past three years?”
“Our family’s privacy is invaded and our rights are trampled on.” Angelica was indignant. “Hard to believe it could happen in America, but we’re living proof that it can—and does.”
“It’s not a tap,” Weatherall said quickly. “The phone is attached to a number-tracer registry, which is perfectly legal. Conversations can’t be overheard, a number is simply logged into a computer and the origin of the calls can be traced.”
“And guess what? Records show that Romina gets calls from phone booths all over the country. Explain that!” demanded Searcy.
Angelica shrugged. “Mama has lots of friends who live all over the country and like to stay in touch.”
“And none of them have their own phones?” howled Searcy.
Flynt cleared his throat. “Any record of outgoing calls?”
“The outgoing calls are all to local numbers, and they all check out.” Weatherall smiled slightly. “If Romina calls friends all over the country to stay in touch, she uses phone booths too. Using coins. There are no telephone credit card numbers on record.”
Neither Romina nor Angelica offered any explanation. And Flynt faced the fact that these raids weren’t instigated on the whims of “Searcy and other paid snoops.” He knew that whatever the evidence in this case and others, it was strong enough to authorize police and FBI involvement, compelling enough for a judge to issue a warrant.
And all this had been going on for the past three years!
What he’d deemed odd about the Carrolls, their suspicion-bordering-on-paranoia, their rehearsed blank expressions, designed to give away nothing, made sense in light of the facts he’d just learned. He had thought their initial behavior was that of people with something to hide. Well, it appeared what they were hiding were people!
No wonder Angelica had held him at gunpoint until his identity had been established to her satisfaction. Until she’d believed that he wasn’t a doggedly determined P.I. like Searcy or an infuriated ex-spouse who might use force against them to demand information about missing children. Once again, he found himself contemplating the kind of men in Romina Carroll’s life since her early affair with Brandon. Had a string of abusive men in her personal life turned her pro-active? He could only imagine the effects of it all on Romina’s family. On Angelica.
As if the Carrolls’ secret world wasn’t bizarre enough, he was about to introduce Brandon and the Fortunes into it. And now there was another angle to be considered.
Flynt thought back to that meeting in the Fortune mansion, when he’d broken the news of the existence of Brandon’s daughter. They had all contemplated the likely possibility that either Romina or Angelica or both were behind the extortion attempt.
But with the revelation of Romina’s involvement in this underground network, the list of suspects widened considerably. Suppose Romina had mentioned her past relationship with Brandon to one of the fugitives she’d sheltered?
A woman on the run, desperate for money, might easily view Angelica as a direct conduit to the Fortunes—and their fortune. Such a person might decide that exploiting the secret connection promised a cash bonanza.
For the first time since reading that amateurish blackmail note, Flynt found himself seriously considering the death threat it contained—if you don’t pay big bucks your daughter will be killed and you’ll be framed for her murder.
It was time for a swift re-evaluation of the situation. Exactly who were they dealing with?
Angelica hadn’t known Brandon was her father, which immediately