by Neil Turner
She nods with a look of confusion, as if to ask what on earth that has to do with us tonight. “I heard something, but you know I don’t follow the news.”
I’d forgotten. “That happened at our house, Trish. It’s not over yet.”
Her eyes pop wide open. “Oh my God!” she exclaims as she pulls away, bounces to her feet, and pulls me up after her. “Your daughter could be in danger?”
I nod.
She throws her arms around my neck and holds me close with her frightened body quivering against mine for a long moment. God forgive me in the circumstance, but I feel every contour of her lithe form pressing against me.
“Go!” she orders when she pulls back. “Please be careful, Tony. Call with any news. Any time,” she adds as she pushes me out the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
Detective Jake Plummer, bless his heart, has answered my panicked plea for help the following morning. Brittany still hasn’t been heard from, nor has Bobby Harland. They were last seen departing the drama meeting just after seven o’clock last night. After I finally got home to find neither Brittany nor any indication that she’d been there, Pat had called the cops to file a missing person report.
I watch from inside a busy Dunkin’ near Cedar Heights PD headquarters as Jake exits his unmarked police car and hustles inside. Cops and others mill about, coming and going in a cacophony of conversations and shouted orders. The scents of baking, coffee, and fast-food cooking compete for olfactory supremacy.
“Coffee?” he mouths after he gets into the order line.
I shake my head and point at the cup sitting in front of me, my tenth or twentieth of the interminable night and morning. I fidget nervously until Jake finally slips into the molded plastic seat on the opposite side of my table for two. He arrives with a tall coffee and—what else for a cop?—two doughnuts.
“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs when he catches me looking. “A cop and his doughnuts.”
I don’t reply, just sit and watch him getting organized with sugar and creamers and napkins. He chatters while he does. “Still bugs me that the corporate dicks who run this joint dropped the word Donut to change the name to Dunkin’,” he continues without waiting for an answer. “It’s a doughnut shop! I don’t even wanna think about how much this boondoggle costs me every time I buy a damned doughnut. Supposed to appeal to younger customers or some such bullshit. Read somewhere that they kept the pink-and-orange color scheme to reassure old farts like me that I’m still welcome. Bunch of corporate doublespeak, if you ask me. I swear to God, we should be sending young cops to the overblown ego-stoking productions these corporate executives indulge in to herald the latest and greatest BS they’re peddling. Great way to teach rookies how to spot someone spouting a line of horseshit. Good practice for the interrogation room.”
I’ve got other things on my mind. “Thanks for coming, Jake.”
“No problem,” he says before he bites off half a doughnut in a single go. He chews and swallows. “Max is back from Italy. Says he could happily live in that little Italian village Francesco is holed up in. He stuck around for a few extra days to make sure everything seemed to be okay and fell in love with the place.”
Jake’s detective game face slides into place when he looks up from his doughnut and finds me sitting mute and disinterested in his news. “What’s up?”
I fill him in on the events of last night and conclude, “They’re still missing.”
Jake pushes the doughnuts and coffee aside, plunks his notebook on the table, and starts scribbling while he walks me through the story and wrangles every conceivable detail he can think of out of me.
“What’s the word from patrol?” he asks when I finish.
“Not a thing,” I reply bitterly.
“Which is why you called me. They gave you the story that a person has to be missing for twenty-four hours before they’ll do anything, huh?”
I nod. “Seems like bullshit when we’re talking about a couple of kids.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“I know missing kids isn’t really your thing,” I say by way of apology. I don’t really mean it. I want his help.
“It isn’t until it is,” he mutters, then winces for having said that to a parent who’s still clinging to hope. “Sorry.”
I shrug it off. Sort of.
“You’ve been in touch with this Bobby’s parents, right?” he asks while looking down at his notes.
“Pat has. They’re scared shitless, too. He’s a good kid.”
Jake’s eyes rise to mine. “Let’s hope so. How well do you know this kid?”
“Not well,” I admit, “but—”
“If cops had a dime for every time we’ve heard that about some prick who abuses a woman or worse,” he interjects. Then his face falls again. “Jesus, I’m sorry I put it that way.”
As if I don’t already have enough shitty ideas bouncing around my skull about what may have befallen Brittany, that somehow hadn’t yet occurred to me. I grow more incensed as the idea begins to fester, but my anger isn’t directed at Jake. “The asshole cops we talked to last night and this morning chalked it up to a couple of kids out for the night with their raging teenage hormones taking their natural course. You know where they were going with that.”
Jake nods. “They may be right.”
“Damn it—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand. “It’s a possibility, Tony, but only one of several. The guys Pat spoke with should have considered the not-so-innocent explanations, especially once their minds turned over the sexual possibilities.”
“Such as only Bobby’s hormones getting out of control.”
“Yeah,” he mutters while he gathers up the half doughnut and inhales it. He wraps the second doughnut in a napkin and jams it into one of his suit-jacket pockets as he stands and grabs his coffee. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I ask as I scramble to my feet.
“Down to the station to make sure a missing person report gets filed and worked. It’s time to get this show on the road.”
We take his car, which smells much like the inside of Dunkin’. While he peels out of the parking lot, he orders me to call Bobby’s parents to make sure they’ve filed a missing person report on their son. “Give them my name and number and tell their local cops to call me if they need a kick in the ass to get to work on it.”
I’m still on the phone with Mr. Harland when we park behind Cedar Heights PD headquarters. Jake taps his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel while I finish my call. He flings the car door open when I end the conversation, then waves me out. We march inside and go straight to the front desk. “Busy morning?” he asks a cop sitting behind a ballistic glass partition that separates him from the lobby.
“Pretty quiet, Detective Plummer,” the guy replies airily.
“Hrumph,” Jake mutters as we continue deeper into the building in search of the watch commander. We find him at a desk, sitting amid a mountain of paper, a half-filled paper coffee cup, and a half-empty polycarbonate package of grocery-store miniature cinnamon doughnuts.
“I hear it’s a quiet morning around here, huh?” Jake asks.
The sergeant appears pleased about it when he smiles and nods.
“Quiet night, too?” Jake continues. “Night shift didn’t leave anything pressing for you guys to work?”
“Nope.”
Jake angrily relates what he knows about the disappearance of Brittany and Bobby. “This case better not end up on my desk because you guys have been fucking the dog while a couple of kids are unaccounted for.”
The sergeant’s nostrils flare. “I didn’t know,” he retorts indignantly.
Jake is stone-faced as he stares back. After giving the sergeant a moment to think things through, he asks, “You were unaware that these kids are missing, or you’re just incurious?” His tone makes clear that he considers neither answer acceptable.
The sergeant finally looks a little chagrined.
Jake ti
lts his head my way. “Meet Tony Valenti, the father of the missing girl. Perhaps one of your not-so-busy people can find a few minutes to help Mr. Valenti locate his daughter?”
After muttering a half-assed apology, the sergeant gets to work. I furnish more information and email him a recent picture of Brittany.
“What about Brittany’s mother?” Jake asks after we finish and walk to the squad room and settle at his desk.
My shoulders sag at the mention of Michelle. “What about her?”
“Has she heard from Brittany?”
“If so, I would have heard from her.”
“You haven’t called?”
I shake my head. “She’s angling for full custody. If something bad has happened, she won’t know any more than I do, but she’ll complicate things for everyone. I’ll call if and when I have news.”
Jake doesn’t look convinced, but doesn’t argue. I’m not entirely sure I’m doing the right thing where Michelle is concerned, but I honestly can’t see how involving her will help things. If Brittany and Bobby have sneaked off to be together, there’ll be plenty of time to bring Michelle into the mix once the dust settles. If something else is going on, Michelle (and inevitably her father) will go on the warpath to use our daughter’s misfortune to slam me and advance her argument for full custody. Maybe I’m being selfish, I don’t know, but this seems like the right approach at the moment.
I sit at Jake’s desk and drink coffee while he works and the shift supervisor does whatever it is he needs to do. The desk sergeant calls an hour later to inform Jake that the missing person report is done and circulating.
It’s time for me to go. “Thanks, Jake.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what we’re supposed to be here for,” he mutters angrily. “You get back to the house and hold tight. I asked the watch commander to have a patrol car roll by periodically.”
“Thanks.” Do I mention Joe? I feel immensely guilty that I’m holding out on Jake. He’s trustworthy and would probably know how to keep things on the q.t., but imagining Joe’s reaction to my telling the cops about our visit has me spooked. For some reason—quite possibly simple stupidity—I decide not to.
Jake peers up at me. “You got a gun yet?”
I shake my head no.
“Right, the famous Valenti firearm prohibition shtick,” he scoffs. “Get yourself a fucking gun, Tony.”
I wish to hell I had a gun when I walk into my living room and again find Joe camped out in Papa’s La-Z-Boy. He’s brought a couple of friends this morning. Big friends—even larger than himself. Maybe the gun isn’t such a good idea. I’m pretty sure I know who would come out on the wrong end of a shootout at the Valenti Corral.
“Where have you been?” Joe asks while he points at Mama’s chair. “We’ve been here for a couple of hours.”
“Just a little visit with the Cedar Heights PD,” I reply, figuring I might as well get that on the table right away.
Joe’s eyes narrow. “I hope you didn’t mention our little get-together?”
I shake my head no as I sit and again wonder why I hadn’t. At the moment, it seems like an especially dumb move—even for me.
Joe smiles. “Glad to hear that, Mr. Valenti. It’s too late for cops now, anyway.”
An icicle of fear gnaws its way into my heart. Why would he say that? There’s only one reason that immediately comes to mind. I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, towering above Joe. “If anything happens to her—”
“Sit, Mr. Valenti!” he snaps as he pulls a handgun out of his lap and waves it lazily in my direction. The goons, who have been hanging back in the corners of the room, take a couple of steps in my direction.
Me with a gun seems even more ill advised. Having one would have just gotten me shot.
“Sit,” Joe repeats firmly as he stares up at me with the gun now centered squarely on my chest.
I sink back into my seat and glare at the prick who seems to have orchestrated my daughter’s disappearance.
“That’s better,” Joe says easily while the goons melt back into their corners. Then he settles back in the seat, folds his arms across his chest, and examines me for a long moment. “Did you file a missing person report?”
I decide to tell part of the truth and hope he’s none the wiser. “Not personally. A friend did so last night without me knowing. Bobby Harland’s parents have filed one, as well.”
Joe’s scowl lets me know that he doesn’t like this revelation. “Meaning their faces will be plastered on every milk carton in Chicagoland within a day or two.”
I don’t think they do the milk-carton thing anymore, but there’s no point mentioning it. I shrug. “Nothing I could do to prevent that.”
He considers that for several seconds. “Perhaps not. You will not breathe a word about this to the police. Understood?”
I don’t reply immediately as the possibility of telling Jake about Joe plays through my mind.
“Understood?” Joe repeats harshly.
The menace in his tone gets my full attention. I nod.
He switches back to conversational mode. “We should discuss a few things, Mr. Valenti.”
Things that will undoubtedly involve the well-being of my father and daughter. I swallow and do what I can to tamp down the terror in my voice when I ask, “What things?”
A slow smile creeps over Joe’s face. “That daughter of yours is a lovely girl. It would be a shame if something untoward were to happen to her.”
“You son of a bitch,” I snarl with my hands locked on the armrests of my chair to hold me in place. He’s three, four feet away—I can probably get my hands around his neck before he can lift his gun. My threatening tone prompts movement in the periphery of my vision as Joe’s goombahs go on point. “Where is she?”
Joe taunts me with a mocking smile. “Now, now, Mr. Valenti. You know I can’t tell you that. Rest assured that Brittany is safe… for the moment. Comfortable even, especially locked away in a bedroom with that beefcake boyfriend of hers.”
This is the first time he’s explicitly acknowledged that he has Brittany and Bobby. I should have seen this coming, I think as the final moments of his visit last week play through my memory: “Have it your way, Mr. Valenti. I’m afraid you’ll have to live with the responsibility for what happens next.” This is all my fault.
“The boyfriend was a bit of an unwelcome complication,” Joe continues. “But he might prove useful in keeping Brittany under control.” He shoots a grin at the goons and adds, “Couple of good-looking fifteen-year-olds with raging hormones thrown together in a tough spot they might not get out of. It’s a good bet that Bobby’s keeping Brittany’s mind off her troubles by fucking her brains out, huh?”
“Are you trying to provoke me?” I growl through clenched teeth while the goons chuckle.
Joe waves the notion aside.
“Just shoot me and be done with it if that’s what you’re here to do,” I say.
Joe purses his lips and shakes his head. “It may yet come to that, Mr. Valenti—for all of you—but I’ve come today to make a point or two.”
I glare at him wordlessly while my imagination plays out a scene of my caving his head in with Papa’s floor lamp.
Something lurking in Joe’s amused eyes suggests that he knows I’m thinking tough-guy thoughts. He doesn’t look worried. “So, no cops, Mr. Valenti.”
How many fucking times is he going to tell me that?
“We will know if you talk to any cops,” he warns me with a pointed look.
The bastards probably do have eyes and ears within the local police forces. Hell, Jake was worried about just that possibility the night we spirited Papa and Max out of the country. Joe seems to be waiting for an answer when my mind returns to the present. I nod curtly.
He dips his head in acknowledgment. “Are you ready to tell us where Francesco is?”
When I realize that he’s leading up to exchanging my daughter’s safety for my father’s whereabouts, I stare back at him
with as pure a hatred as I’ve ever felt toward a human being—not that this animal is anything more than a feral beast. What the hell do I do now?
Joe rests his elbows on his knees and eases closer. “The other thing we discussed last week was your legal work for R & B Ramp Services. I trust you’ve given some thought to how you can assure me that our mutual interests are aligned in that matter?”
Yeah, I’ve given this some thought, but not in the way he wants. I’m trying to figure a way out of this mess. Unsuccessfully. The leverage this guy has over me is like being squeezed in a vise. I nod dejectedly.
“Well?” Joe asks. “Ready to play ball?”
Am I? My daughter’s life is at immediate risk. At least I hope it is. I’ve only got this asshole’s word that she’s even alive. My father’s life will probably be forfeit if I reveal his whereabouts. The ruination of Billy Likens’s future is assured if I play along. I can’t betray any of them. I stare back implacably at Joe. I need to play for time while I figure out a way to turn the tables on this worthless piece of shit.
Joe frowns. “You’re a hardheaded son of a gun, aren’t you? Not necessarily a quality I disapprove of, but stupid when you hold no cards, Mr. Valenti.”
My stomach is digesting itself while I stare back at him in the forlorn hope that he doesn’t smell the fear emanating off me like steam in a sauna. Of course, he smells it. All predators play on and exploit the fear of their prey.
Joe slaps his thighs and gets to his feet, then fixes me with a long, intense stare. “You’re playing a dangerous game with other people’s lives.”
Don’t I know it.
“Let’s go, boys,” he says to his gorillas, who obediently follow him to the front door. Joe pauses with his hand on the doorknob and looks back at me. “The clock is ticking, Mr. Valenti. I’ll expect to hear the answers I want within forty-eight hours.”
And then? I wonder while an overpowering wave of gloom rolls over me.
Chapter Twenty-Two