by Tripp Ellis
She snatched the phone from my hands and examined the image carefully. A river of tears streamed down Madison’s face.
I hated being the bearer of bad news. I was quite sure she would hate me forever.
She set the phone down on the counter, backed away from the bar and ran into a back storage room. Her desperate sobs filtered out of the storage compartment.
I felt like shit.
19
That afternoon I swung by JD’s house to pick up Scarlett. I parked my bike on the circular drive and knocked on the front door. A moment later, Scarlett pulled open the door and greeted me with a perky smile. She flung her arms around my neck and gave me a hug. “It’s so good to see you! Let’s get out of here, I’m about to die of boredom.”
“I got you a helmet,” I said handing her the spare.
She frowned. “This is totally going to flatten my hair.”
“Better than getting your head flattened.”
JD lingered in the foyer. “Nope! No way. You’re not riding on that bike with him.”
“Jack, ease up,” Scarlett said.
“I’ve seen how he drives.” He dug into his pocket and tossed me the keys to the Porsche.
“But, Jack! Tyson promised me a ride on his bike. I’ve been waiting for weeks for it to get out of the shop.”
“I don’t care what he promised you. I don’t want you getting on that thing.”
“I’m an adult, Jack. I’m 18. I can do what I want.”
Jack gave me the evil eye.
“If he says you don’t ride, you don’t ride,” I said.
Scarlett pouted. “You’re no fun either.”
“We don’t have to go,” I said.
“Fine, we’ll take the Porsche. But I’m driving.”
“The hell you are,” JD grumbled.
“Let’s go before he tries to give me a curfew,” Scarlett muttered.
She climbed into the passenger seat of the car and slammed the door.
JD smiled and quipped, “You two kids have fun!”
I slid into the driver seat, pushed in the clutch, and cranked up the engine.
Scarlett blasted the radio.
My hand grabbed the stick shift and slid it into gear. I eased out the clutch, and the flat six purred as we rolled out of the driveway.
Scarlett waved to JD, still in the doorway.
“I’m so excited to see this movie,” Scarlett shouted over the wind and radio. “The trailer looks awesome.” She paused. “Is it going to be weird for you?”
“A little.”
“Well, if you have to cry, I won’t judge you,” she said.
I gave her a sideways glance. “What’s going on in your life? Are you staying out of trouble?”
“Yep!”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Have you had to come bail me out of any situations?”
“Not this week.”
She scowled at me playfully.
“You staying clean?”
“Yep.”
“Not even weed?”
She gasped. “I’m totally straight.”
I didn’t know whether to believe her.
With the top down, we blasted down the highway and twisted through the city, heading for the megaplex. I could use a small escape—2.5 hours where no one was shooting at me. No dead bodies. No missing girls. No snooping reporters. It almost sounded like fun.
“Do you know Violet Scarpetti?”
“Yeah, she graduated with me.”
“Were you two close?”
“No. Not really. Casual acquaintances. I’d see her out here and there. We partied a few times. Why?”
“She’s missing.”
Scarlett’s eyes widened. “Really? Like, missing she ran away? Or missing, like she’s chained up in someone’s basement somewhere?”
I shrugged.
A grim look washed over Scarlett’s pretty face. “What’s with the Sandcastle Killer thing? Is that something to be concerned about? I mean, you know how the news is. They make it sound like the world is ending every day.”
“The guy says he’s going to kill again. We don’t know when or where. So, keep your wits about you.”
“How do you know it’s a guy?”
“Statistically speaking, most serial killers are males in their mid 30s.”
“I’m not interesting enough to murder,” she said, dryly. “All I do these days is go to work, come home, watch TV, sleep, eat, repeat.”
“Welcome to the real world.”
“The real world sucks. As soon as I’m off probation, I’m getting out of here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I haven’t decided. LA, or New York. I’m trying to build up my social media following, but I need better images. Half the photographers around here are creepers. They just want to get you naked and add to their spank bank.”
“You let me know if anybody gives you a hard time.”
Scarlett smiled. “That’s what I love about you, always looking out for me.”
The parking lot was full at the megaplex. It took forever to find a space. The ticket line wrapped around the theater twice. Bree Taylor’s movie, UltraMega, directed by the award winning David Cameron, was going to be a massive hit. If people were lining up like this all across the country, the movie would break all box office records.
The thought made me smile.
I hoped the movie was good.
20
The lights went down, and I settled into my seat with a tub of popcorn and an oversized diet soda. Every seat in the house was full.
The crowd roared as the studio logo appeared on the screen. For the next 2.5 hours, I was on the edge of my seat. There was action, adventure, thrills, chills. I laughed, I cried, and was taken on an emotional roller coaster. Bree looked phenomenal. Her performance was Oscar worthy. I may have been a little biased, but she was really good.
When the credits rolled, the audience cheered.
Maybe it was my connection to Bree, but I hadn’t seen a movie this good in a long time.
My eyes squinted as we exited the theater into the bright sunlight. The lines for tickets still wrapped around the building, and it would only get worse as the evening progressed.
"What did you think?" I asked Scarlett.
"I loved it. Bree was so amazing!" She paused. "I've made up my mind. I'm going to Hollywood. I want to do that."
"You know how difficult doing that is?"
"Somebody's gotta do it."
"Tens of thousands of people go to Hollywood every year trying to make it big."
"Where are your words of encouragement?" she asked, in a sassy tone.
"I'm not saying you can't do it. But if you go out there, go with a plan. Work hard. Don't fall into the usual traps. That city can chew you up and spit you out in a heartbeat."
"You have connections, don't you?"
"My connections are tenuous at best."
"You have an agent?"
"Technically. But he hasn't really done anything for me."
"Maybe you can put in a good word with him for me. I mean, he represented Bree after all."
I sighed. "I'll see what I can do."
Scarlett smiled and batted her eyelashes. She knew she could get me to do anything she wanted. Just about anything, anyway.
JD called. "You need to get back here and pick me up, ASAP."
"Why? What's going on?"
"I'll tell you when you get here."
We strolled through the parking lot, trying to remember where we parked the Porsche. The lot was full, and other cars trolled the area like vultures, looking to nab a space as soon as one became available. As I backed out of the parking space, two vehicles charged for the spot. A small compact zipped in as I slipped out. A burly guy hopped out of his truck and looked like he was going to start shit. He yelled at the top of his lungs while the driver of the compact car locked himself in the vehicle, hoping to avoid a physical altercation.
I watched,
waiting to see if I would need to intervene.
After a moment, the burly man climbed back into his truck and looked for another place.
The traffic exiting the lot was a nightmare. A river of red tail lights. It took 20 minutes to get onto the main road.
I zipped us back to JD's, where he anxiously awaited our return.
"Is my car still in one piece?"
I looked at him and frowned. "I hate to tell you this, but some jackass in the parking lot backed into it. Put a hell of a dent in the hood."
I kept a straight face.
JD's jaw dropped, and his face went pale. "Son-of-a-bitch!"
I glanced to Scarlett, and she went along with the ruse.
"At least we’re safe.” I abruptly changed the subject. “So, what's the big news?"
"Scarpetti got a ransom note," JD said. “He wants us to meet him at AJ’s Pizza Palace."
I tossed him the keys, and JD grumbled as we rushed out of the door.
Scarlett shouted after us, "Thanks for the movie, Tyson!"
I pulled the door shut behind me as we stepped to the driveway. JD anxiously rounded the front of the car, looking for the damage.
There was none.
He sneered at me. "You little bastard.”
"I probably shouldn’t joke like that with someone your age."
His scowl deepened.
We climbed into the car, and JD roared the engine. We flew out of the driveway and headed across town to AJ’s. It was an old-school New York pizza joint. Big Tony had part interest in it. It had checkered tablecloths and red leather booths and mahogany trimmings. Pictures of New York lined the walls. Walking into that place was a treat for the senses. It smelled like cheese, marinara, olive oil, and Italian seasonings. You couldn’t walk in there and not want a slice.
Tony sat in a booth in the back with a grim look on his face. JD and I slid into the booth opposite him. He held the ransom note in his hand.
"What does it say?" I asked.
"Here, see for yourself," Tony said, handing the paper across the table.
I didn't want to touch it. I didn't want to further contaminate the evidence. A pair of latex gloves would have come in handy, but I didn't have any.
Tony set the note on the table, facing me. Two sentences were on the page, made from a collage of different letters that had been cut out and glued in place, then xeroxed. The note read: We have Violet. Wait for further instructions.
I exchanged a glance with JD. In a way, it was a good sign. It meant that she was probably still alive.
Probably.
"This is a copy. I'm sure somebody at the crime lab could determine what it was printed on, the type of paper, and if this was printed at home, or at a copy place."
"That's great," Tony said, dryly. "But that doesn't do anything for us right now. They've got my little girl. God knows what they're going to do to her. I don't even know what they want."
"You'll get a call shortly with the demand for a ransom. If they've done their homework, they’ll give you an amount that you can get access to in a reasonable amount of time," I said. "That's if they are professionals. If they are amateurs, they’ll just throw out a random number."
"I've got money. Money is not the problem. I'll do whatever it takes to get Violet back."
"The first thing we need to determine is if they actually have Violet. We need proof of life."
Big Tony cringed at the thought that Violet might be dead. "Those scumbags better pray to God that she’s still alive. I will hunt them down and kill them."
21
Sweat sprouted on Big Tony's forehead. Anger flushed his face, and the big guy trembled slightly. He was so mad he couldn't steady himself. I tried to reassure him that everything would be okay. But there were never any guarantees in a situation like this. He knew, just as well as I did, that the odds weren’t good. Kidnappers typically only care about one thing—the money. The hostages are just a commodity—one that can talk and testify.
A few moments later, Tony's phone rang. An unknown caller. He looked to me for guidance.
"Put it on speaker and answer it,” I said.
Tony swiped the screen. "This is Tony."
There was a long silence.
JD and I leaned in.
Finally, someone spoke.
A distorted voice crackled through the speaker. It had clearly been augmented and deepened through some type of software. "We want $250,000 or the girl dies. Cash. Unmarked bills. Do not go to the police. Do not contact the FBI. Do not deviate from our instructions. Is this understood?"
I nodded to Tony.
"Yes." He bit his tongue. I could tell there were quite a few things he wanted to say.
I whispered, “Get proof of life."
"You have 24 hours,” the distorted voice said. “Await further instructions."
"I want proof of life," Tony growled.
There was another long silence.
"Proof of life or you're not going to get shit from me."
Static crackled over the line.
Finally, “You’ll get your proof.”
The line went dead.
A few moments later, the kidnappers sent a picture of Violet to Tony’s phone.
Tony looked mortified. A mix of horror and anger filled his face.
“Let me see,” I said.
Tony handed me the phone, and I examined the image. A ball gag filled Violet’s mouth, and rope bound her wrists behind her back. Dark mascara streaked her cheeks.
"We have no idea when this picture was taken," I said. "This could be from today, yesterday, a month ago. Who knows?"
A grim sensation twisted in my gut. Usually proof of life photos had a date reference point, such as a picture of the victim with today's newspaper. My first inclination was that Violet was dead, and this picture had been taken previously.
I sent the image to my phone, then handed the device back to Tony.
"We can check the EXIF data on the image file, see if it gives us any additional insight."
“EXIF data?" Tony asked.
"Metadata for the image. Every digital picture has information embedded, like shutter speed, exposure, aperture, ISO, date, time, location, etc. If you set up the data, it can even apply copyright information. Many phones will automatically pull the data and embed the owner’s name in every photo.”
I had an app on my phone that could easily read embedded metadata. I opened the image and examined the data file’s contents. I frowned when I saw it had been wiped clean. "Looks like these people aren't complete amateurs."
"I don't know if that makes me feel better, or worse," Big Tony said.
"We can trace the incoming call. Find the point of origin,” I said.
It would require the assistance of Isabella, my former handler at Cobra Company. None of the intel she gathered for us would be admissible in a court of law, but it might point us in the right direction. The clandestine agency had damn near unlimited resources.
I had retired from clandestine work. Or so I kept telling myself. Isabella kept trying to get me to take assignments, and I kept refusing.
She was beyond frustrated with me.
I was done with the spy trade. It was never straightforward. You could never trust anyone. And the ethics were often… complicated.
I much preferred assisting the sheriff. Most cases were black and white. There was a definite bad guy. There was very little moral ambiguity. And, in some small way, it was my attempt to redeem myself. Bring justice to an unjust world. That kind of thing.
Isabella took my call and answered curtly, “What is it now, Tyson?"
I didn't even attempt to make small talk. "I need you to trace the last phone call made to this number."
I gave her Tony's digits.
"I'll see what I can do." Isabella hung up.
To my surprise, she didn't protest, she didn't ask me to trade my soul for information. It was unusual. It had me concerned. Nothing with Isabella was ever easy.
She did no favors without expecting some type of compensation.
22
Within moments, Isabella called back. "The call was made from a mobile phone located at Zava Java. You know the place?"
"Yeah. Thanks." I said. Then I added, "I owe you one."
"You owe me more than one," Isabella said before she hung up.
I told Tony to sit tight.
JD and I raced out of the restaurant and jumped into his Porsche. Zava Java was only a few blocks away. The Porsche launched from the curb and screamed around the corner, weaving through traffic. JD zigzagged through the streets and dropped me off at the curb in front of the coffee shop. With my head on a swivel, I scanned the area, then pushed inside. My eyes flicked from table to table. It was full of college students with open laptops, business professionals, young moms needing a coffee break, and bohemian types. Baristas swirled cream into coffee and made shots of espresso. The gentle murmur of conversation filled the air, and soothing light jazz seeped from overhead speakers.
If the kidnapper was still here, he blended in seamlessly.
I moved to the counter and flashed my badge.
The barista ignored me.
"Excuse me. You have surveillance cameras?"
The barista was slow to look in my direction. When he did, his lip curled in an involuntary sneer, and his voice filled with condescension. "No. We don't. We value our customers privacy."
I rolled my eyes. With my badge held over my head, I shouted to the patrons, "Deputy Sheriff. I'm searching for a man who made a phone call from a cell phone at this location with in the last half hour."
The chatter stopped, and all eyes turned to me. Several people came forward. "I made a phone call."
"So did I?"
"Me too."
"Is there something wrong?"
I examined their cell phones. None of their numbers matched that of the kidnappers. By that time, JD had parked the car and made his way into the coffee shop.
"No dice,” I said.
"Whoever made that phone call could be sitting here right now, and we’d never know it."
I called Isabella again. "One more favor. Can you tell me where the phone is now?"