Jake Caldwell Thrillers

by Weaver, James

  Thirty minutes, and a fake wig and moustache later, the Wolf walked into the Saver Storage front door. A greasy-haired kid behind the counter pitched an uninterested, microsecond glimpse in the Wolf’s direction as he approached the counter, his eyes locked on a television airing an episode of Friends.

  “Excuse me?” the Wolf asked.

  “Yeah?” The kid tore his attention from the screen. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for someone who rents a unit here. Name’s Sean Mack.”

  The kid offered a blank stare, like a blinking cursor on a computer waiting for more information. “And?”

  The Wolf resisted the urge to backhand the idiot. “And I’m hoping you could help me. I’m a debt collector, and Mr. Mack owes back payments on child support.”

  The kid pursed his lips to the side and rubbed his thumb and index fingers together. “Sorry to hear it. But it’s against company policy to give out information on our customers. Free information, especially.”

  The Wolf extracted his wallet and laid a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. “Company policies can be a pain sometimes.”

  The kid snatched the bill and shoved it in his pocket. “He’s in Unit 107.”

  “I know he’s rented Unit 107, but I need to find him.”

  “No,” the kid said, ticking his head to the door behind him, “he’s in Unit 107 now. Think he’s been sleeping in there the last couple of days.”

  “He’s there now? Any other customers in the building?”

  The kid jiggled his moppy head. “You and him is all.”

  “Would you mind showing me where it is?”

  “I gotta man the counter in case someone comes in.”

  The Wolf placed another fifty on the counter. “I’d appreciate the extra assistance. Get him to open the door, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  The kid eyed the fifty. “Okay, give me a second to take a piss.”

  As the kid disappeared, the Wolf slinked to the front door and turned the deadbolt. He was back at the counter, waiting, by the time the toilet in the back office flushed.

  “Knock on the door, say you have to talk to him for a second,” the Wolf said. “Things go smooth and there’s another fifty in it for you.”

  “Right on,” the kid said, yellowed teeth flashing on his pimpled face.

  The kid’s boot heels echoed off the concrete floor. Tracking the black unit numbers spray painted on the bright yellow doors, he stopped in front of Unit 107 at the back of the building, adjacent to an exit door. No lock on the roll-up door, a rustling sound emanating from inside. The kid rapped twice, asking if Mr. Mack could talk a second. The Wolf drew his Glock from a waistband holster.

  The yellow unit door screeched up revealing Sean Mack, a slim man in his mid-thirties with tousled blonde hair and round-rimmed glasses. His dark eyes widened as the Wolf raised the gun and blew a hole in the back of the storage kid’s head, spraying blood like a mist across Mack’s white shirt and blue jeans, the sound of the shot bouncing off the walls.

  The Wolf aimed the Glock at Mack, and he backed into the unit with his palms raised. “Mr. Mack. Or should I say, Mr. Polovich. We have a lot to discuss.”

  “Who…who are you?” Mack’s mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water. “Wh…what do you want?”

  “I want Sokolov.” The Wolf stalked closer. “You’re going to tell me everything you know.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, the Wolf walked out the back door of Saver Storage after washing the blood from his hands, destroying the security system in the office and placing a lock on Unit 107. With any luck, it would be days before the smell alerted anyone to the two bodies inside the unit.

  Mack gave him nothing concerning Sokolov or their plans, his resilience impressive even in the face of the tremendous pain inflicted upon him. His bloody smile was unnerving, and all he said was, “You’re too late.” In the end, the Wolf settled for the two numbers in Mack’s burner phone. He traced the first number to a nearby Domino’s pizza delivery service, and the second to an unregistered, obvious burner number.

  He dialed the burner number from Mack’s phone, his foot tapping as he waited for someone to answer. The Wolf had no intention of saying anything, but he wanted to hear the voice on the other end. No answer. He navigated to the messenger menu on the phone. No texts. Damn.

  You’re too late. Did that mean the Blackbird was already in motion? The Wolf called his contact and requested a call details record on the number in Mack’s phone. The CDR would give him the incoming and outgoing calls to and from that number. He was hoping the contact would also be able to tell him the most frequently used cell towers for that number. This would allow the Wolf to narrow his search ring for the location of the owner. After a few minutes, his contact showed two outgoing calls from the phone number—both to Marta’s phone. It had to be Sokolov. His contact gave a location of the calls from a cell tower in Kansas City, Kansas.

  “Where is the phone now?” the Wolf asked. He listened to his contact rattle the keyboard.

  “Warsaw, Missouri. Little town about a hundred miles southeast of you. Pretty sparse population, so I can’t tell you with any specificity the exact location. Sorry.”

  Ten minutes later, the Wolf turned in circles underneath the cell tower that registered the phone number. The streets were lined on either side with pawn shops and liquor stores, gas stations and convenience stops. The one place that piqued his interest was an Eazy Sleep motel on the south side of the road. Sokolov was on the run but had to sleep sometime. The motel looked like just the place for someone to hide without being asked too many questions.

  The lobby of the motel smelled of bleach, as if someone tried to wash away the desperation of its tenants. An obese man in his fifties manned the counter, thumbing through a smutty magazine while eating nachos from a plastic container. A splash of orange cheese danced across his Eazy Sleep t-shirt. He glanced to the Wolf through coke-bottle glasses.

  “I’m looking for someone,” the Wolf said.

  The man wiped his mouth with his flabby forearm. “Aren’t we all?”

  The Wolf pulled up a picture of Sokolov from his cell phone. “Seen this guy?”

  “Can’t give out information about our customers,” the man replied, turning his attention back to his magazine without bothering to look at the picture.

  The Wolf’s nostrils flared. “I’ll make it worth your time.”

  “What do you want him for?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really because I couldn’t tell you even if I knew who he was.”

  The Wolf sighed and retrieved a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. He laid it on the counter next to the magazine, drawing the slob’s attention from underage girls on the pages. “Wouldn’t hurt for you to look at the picture, would it? Almost a day’s worth of your pay just to look at a picture?”

  The man glanced over his shoulder toward a back office. Seeing nobody, he gave a nod. The Wolf flashed Sokolov’s picture again.

  “Yeah, I recognize him.”

  The Wolf’s pulse quickened. “Is he here? What room?”

  “That would definitely get me fired, dude.”

  The Wolf’s first instinct was to jam his gun into this waste of oxygen’s mouth, but there were cameras and a potential witness in the back room. Even though he wore a disguise, there was no sense pushing his luck. Instead of the gun, he placed two more fifties on the counter.

  The man covered the bills with the magazine. “Room 201. Second floor at the end. Don’t think he’s there though. Maids just serviced the room. But he hasn’t checked out.”

  The Wolf nodded and walked out the front. Minutes later, he was in his car in a parking lot across the street where he had an unimpeded view of Room 201. Sokolov would be there at some point, and the Wolf would be waiting.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The morning sun broke over the horizon and scattered long fingers through trees surroun
ding the pond. Jake cast a line across the steaming water from the end of the dock, Angela and Christopher dominating his thoughts. He’d reeled in a solitary bass, but no answers. His cell vibrated.

  “You’re up early,” Jake said. “Thought you hackers didn’t crack open your eyes until noon.”

  Cat Topher’s voice was low and raspy. “Eat me, Caldwell. I gotta get to work, and I ain’t in any mood for your shit today.” An IT guy who worked for Jake’s former mob boss, Cat established secure networks and was a ninja with a computer. He was fat, bald, and wore a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas.

  “Jesus, Cat. Who pissed in your Cheerios? Just called you last night to ask a favor.”

  Cabinet doors slammed in the background followed by what sounded like glass shattering. “Goddamn it…my favorite mug. Yeah, got your voicemail, your email, and your texts, too. I know you’re a persistent son of a bitch, so I’m calling to tell you I’m not interested and to stop calling me. I gotta go. I’m standing in a pile of broken glass.”

  “Keats can wait.”

  “I ain’t working for Keats anymore. I’m out like you. The constant fear of death sent my blood pressure through the roof. Call someone else.”

  Keats must be getting soft in his old age to let another guy leave his organization without a severe penalty. “Come on, Cat. This is a simple background job.”

  “Jesus, you aren’t going to leave me alone, are you?”

  “Not a chance in hell. But I promise I’ll never call you again after this.”

  Cat’s breath rattled the speaker as he blew out. “Bullshit, but fine. I’ll get to it.”

  “It’s all in the email. You get to it today?”

  “Today? It’ll cost you.”

  “What if I promise to leave your kneecaps in one piece?”

  A dog barked in the background. “You can’t keep using the same threat on me.”

  “How about I don’t tell anyone why you’re nicknamed Cat?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Jake grinned. “In a fucking heartbeat.”

  “I’ll call you by lunchtime.”

  * * *

  At seven o’clock, Bear’s tires crunched over driveway gravel like giant pop rocks. Dressed in a sharp creased uniform, he hefted himself from his cruiser with two cups from the local coffee shop. Rollie Boland snored from the passenger seat, his usual long hair cropped short.

  “Is that Rollie?” Jake asked, climbing the steps from the dock. He tipped the fishing pole against Bear’s cruiser and took the cup his best friend offered.

  “Yeah, stopped by his house on the way out here and told him we wanted some shelves built. His tools are in the trunk.”

  Jake peered through the driver’s side window. “You cut his hair on the way over, too?”

  “Nah. His baby sister got married last weekend, and she made him cut it. Kinda looks like you from a distance.”

  Jake took a sip and winced. “God, this coffee is horrible. What’s this? Her fifth wedding?”

  “Sixth. Divorced Yancy Killbrough in April.”

  “Thought he was in prison.”

  Bear walked toward the trunk. “He was when they got married. He wasn’t out a week before she realized he was a scumbag.”

  Bear popped the trunk and dropped a toolbox, radial saw, and couple of foldup sawhorses to the ground.

  “Why’d you get him this early?” Jake asked.

  “So, he could start on the shelves while you help me with Peter Pickering.”

  “We have guests, remember? She’s on the run from some wacko husband, and you want me to leave her and her kid with a complete stranger?”

  Bear rubbed his beard. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Jake gave another consideration to Rollie sacked out in the passenger seat. “Tell you what, bring numbnuts here back at lunchtime after he’s slept off his bender. I’ll talk to Angela and see what she thinks.”

  “She tell you anything last night?”

  Jake shook his head. “Close, but the kid came in and interrupted us. Cat’s doing a background check on her.”

  “You gotta tell me why they call the douchebag Cat,” Bear said.

  “You’re the sheriff.” Jake slapped Bear on his massive shoulder. “You figure it out.”

  “Asshole,” Bear grumbled.

  Chapter Eighteen

  With Bear and Rollie pulling away, Jake went back to the cabin to get some real coffee. He dumped the crap Bear brought him down the drain and reached for the pot when Christopher wandered into the kitchen, hair disheveled and flannel pajama pants hanging off him. His eyes shone bright and curious as he scrutinized Jake.

  “Good morning,” Jake said. “How did you sleep?”

  The kid’s attention settled on the box of Fruit Loops Jake bought the night before.

  “You hungry?”

  The kid padded toward the three-person round table set in the corner off the kitchen. He perched in a chair and folded his little hands, waiting patiently. Jake grabbed a spoon and a bowl, dumping in a heap of cereal followed by enough milk to make the rings float. Christopher dug in as Jake returned to the kitchen for his coffee.

  “Your mom still asleep?”

  The kid nodded, a trace of milk dribbling down his chin. Jake grabbed a paper towel and handed it to him before sitting across the table.

  “You don’t talk much.” Jake watched the kid wolf the cereal like he hadn’t eaten in a month. “I wasn’t much of a talker at your age either.”

  Christopher finished the bowl and stared at the table. Jake asked if he wanted more, but the boy shook his head.

  “Well, go get some clothes on,” Jake said. “Those fish aren’t going to catch themselves.”

  A hint of a smile crept on Christopher’s face before he slid off the chair and ran back to the bedroom. Jake cleaned the dishes, and by the time he’d rinsed out the bowls, the boy returned dressed in jeans and a powder-blue Kansas City Royals t-shirt.

  Ten minutes later, Jake sat on the dock with the boy at his side. They took turns casting with Jake’s pole. The boy handled the rod well, but the fish didn’t want to cooperate this morning. They fished in silence, enjoying the serenity, the chirp of crickets, and the occasional chattering calls from a group of blue jays across the water.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me stuff about my dad?” Christopher asked, the rod sitting idle in his hands.

  “Why would I?”

  “You keep asking my mom.”

  Jake chewed on his lower lip, unsure how to handle this one. He didn’t want to scare the kid and didn’t want to put his mom in a bad position by badmouthing his old man.

  “She asked me to help keep an eye on the two of you.” Jake took the rod from the boy and reeled the line in. “There must be a reason why.”

  “I think she found his secret place,” the boy whispered, picking at a strand of loose thread from his torn jeans.

  Jake tossed the line again and handed the rod back to Christopher. “Here, reel this in. You know where this secret place is?”

  “In the basement. There’s a loose brick behind the washing machine. One night he got a phone call and went to his study. He closed the door part way. When I walked by, he talked mad to somebody in some weird language.”

  The hairs bristled on Jake’s forearm. “Not English like you and I speak?”

  “Nuh uh. I don’t know what it was. He came out mad and went to the basement. I followed him down the stairs and saw him at his secret place.”

  Christopher reeled the line in and chucked it out again on his own with an angry flick of his wrist. Pretty damn good cast. His dark eyes glared across the water.

  “You see what he had in there?”

  “No way. I’m not even supposed to go down there by myself. I told Mom about it the next morning. She must have looked because I was at my friend Joey’s house and she picked me up crying with a bunch of suitcases in the back of the car. We left my house because of me.”

 
Jake placed a gentle hand on the boy’s back. Christopher flinched but settled into it. “Dude, this isn’t your fault.”

  “Yes, it is.” Christopher’s eyes brimmed. “If I hadn’t said anything my mom wouldn’t have found it, and I’d be in my room instead of here.”

  The line jerked in Christopher’s hands, and he stiffened and reeled. The rod bent at a sharp angle, twitching as the fish fought for its survival. The impending tears evaporated, and the corners of his mouth spread wider with each progressive turn of the reel. Thirty seconds later, a ten-inch crappie dangled on the end of the line, its scales gleaming in the early morning sunlight.

  Pride painted Christopher’s features with a flash of his teeth. “But I guess it’s not all bad, is it, Mr. Caldwell?”

  Jake helped him remove the hook and put the crappie on a stringer, glad to see the kid smile. Christopher darted up the steps to the dock, disappearing in the house with the fish in hand to show his mom. Jake’s happy feeling melted with the wonderment of an angry husband, speaking a foreign language with a secret stash of guns and pictures. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jake spent the morning trying to get Angela alone so they could finish their conversation from the night before, but Christopher’s ideas ranged more toward fishing and four-wheeling through the trails running behind the cabin. Angela had paid Jake a ton of money to be a glorified babysitter. She made lunch while he helped Christopher put together a puzzle of puppies in a basket the kid brought with him from home.

  Cat called a few minutes before noon. “Give me a second, buddy.” Jake stepped out to the front porch. “Hey, Cat. Watcha got for me?”