Trust with Your Life
M.L. Gamble
With love for two beauties, Kathleen Rose Seaman and Sara Kathleen Seaman. Also for Beulah Mae McKinney Curran Beckland, the dearest Valentine.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Molly Jakes—Kidnapped, chased and framed for murder—will she end up loving the man she trusts…or trusting the man who kills her?
Alec Steele—This Australian may have been brainwashed to destroy the person closest to him.
Frederick Brooker—This millionaire businessman was seen pulling a trigger, but it’s what he’s done that wasn’t seen that could prove much more fatal.
Dr. Alicia Chen—The beautiful psychiatrist caught between love and fear. Will her Hippocratic oath rule her actions?
Eric Brooker—This deaf teenager is very accomplished. Will his trust be betrayed by those closest to him?
Mason Weil—Brooker’s slick attorney walks a tightrope between duty to his client and duty to his conscience.
Lieutenant Cortez—Paid to uphold the law, he does his best to work both sides of the street.
Contents
Prologue
February 14
Molly Jakes grabbed her cellular phone out of the front seat compartment and slammed the car door. She glanced at her watch, grimaced at the 11:53 reading and stuck the phone in her purse. Slinging the strap over her left shoulder, she shivered and buttoned her coat.
Fog drooped down like gray flannel from the starless sky, refracting light from the surrounding buildings into a bright blur. Molly shielded her eyes against the glare. She could just make out the shape of the Summer Point Towers office complex a few yards away to which she had been summoned.
Checking to be sure she had locked her car door, Molly headed toward the bulky form ahead, holding her arms close to her body. It was February and forty-two degrees—cold, very cold for California.
It was also one of the last places Molly would have wanted to be if she had been given a choice. Handling service complaints against her telephone installation crew was part of her job. But being called out on Valentine’s Day from the warm bed she had collapsed into three hours before seemed above and beyond, she thought grumpily. As she got near enough to the building to see the glass doors of the entrance, she attempted to shake off her rotten mood.
But her brain wasn’t through grousing. It was bad enough to be thirty-four and to go to bed alone on the traditional lovers’ holiday because there was no likely lover within a hundred yards of her life. But to finally get to sleep only to be awakened by a shrill phone ring followed by a leering, male voice that taunted, “Hey, Jakes, I hope I’m not interrupting your big night...” Those sweet words were spoken by Jerry Williams, one of the more obnoxiously chauvinistic dispatchers, a man she had less respect for than a cockroach.
The heavy glass door swishing closed behind her, Molly finally managed to lay to rest her slightly self-pitying thoughts and take a deep breath. Hey, even cockroaches were entitled to their fun, she reminded herself. Another day, another buck. Think of the town house you want to buy. That’s why you took this promotion, remember? So you could earn enough money to buy some overpriced California real estate all by yourself. And this is how you do it. So be quiet and be happy you’ve got such a good job when a couple of million people are out of work.
Standing in front of the lobby directory, Molly searched out the office number for the alarm company she was seeking. She found Inscrutable Security listed in Suite 330.
She pressed the elevator button with a finger stiff from the cold and rode up alone, composing an all-purpose apology for the owner of Inscrutable, one Frederick Brooker, which she hoped would serve the situation.
Williams hadn’t been clear about the problem but said that the foreman was having dial-tone problems with another telecommunications line carrier, that the crew was going to blow the installation deadline and that they “requested, as per union guarantee, you know,” Jerry had crowed, “a manager type ASAP to run interference” with an unhappy client.
The steel doors slid open and Molly disembarked, peering to the left, then the right. Small painted numbers on the marble-faced wall across from the elevator directed her to the left.
Just her luck. The hall lights to her left were off. She took a few tentative steps into the gloom and stopped. A door eight feet away was marked 320, which meant 330 was several yards farther along into the unseeable.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Molly muttered into the silence. She squared her shoulders and headed down the carpeted hallway. The air inside the building smelled of salt water as strongly as it had outside. The Pacific was only a few blocks away, and the building’s decor was typical of the growing beach town of Summer Point, sixty miles from L.A. Seascapes, painted rattan pictures and a collage of hemp and polished shells hanging on the walls she passed reinforced the style.
She stopped in the darkness and peered at the information on a doorway.
Suite 328 California Psychiatric Clinic, Inc.
Dr. T. Kahn/Dr. A. Chen/Dr.