Crime Beat Girl

by Geri L Dreiling

  Exasperated, Flannery answered, "Hey, Google, Facebook, and god knows what other apps you have on your phone are tracking you all the time to sell you stuff. At least I'm just trying to keep you safe."

  "Um, maybe someone should ask me before tracking me," Debbie said.

  "So that's how the kid got here?" Flannery asked.

  "Bike tracker," Jarrett said, his voice full of pride.

  "Okay, you both found a way in here to rescue me, so let's get the rescuing going. How are we gonna get out?"

  "This room is off the factory floor. Mostly, there's stolen cars out there. The rest of the bunch is in another office on the other side of the area."

  Parker started to groan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Trapped

  Flannery looked at Debbie. "You ever use a gun?"

  "No. Not a fan of firearms," Debbie answered.

  "Well, I'm not giving a gun to a kid. Take Parker's weapon," Flannery said as he demonstrated how it should be used. "Don't use it until you absolutely must. We can't have a case of friendly fire."

  Debbie took the weapon, surprising herself at how quickly she was willing to grab it. And how much more powerful she felt with it in her hand. I need to keep it away from Jarrett, and protect him. The world would be a sadder place if he didn't make it to college. His end can't come in an abandoned factory. At least that was the rationale she came up with.

  The cop cuffed to the radiator started to struggle.

  A voice from a distance called out, "Parker! What's taking you so long?"

  "Get behind the door with me," Flannery ordered, pushing Debbie and Jarrett flat against the wall. "We've got the element of surprise. Once I get his attention, when he's focused on me, you two need to run. I called for backup before I came but I warned them it was a hostage situation. So they're probably somewhere out there now trying to figure out what's going on, waiting to hear from me. But they aren't going to wait much longer. Get out there but keep your hands up as high as you can. Jarrett, tell them who your uncle is. And for god's sake, Bradley, ID yourself right away. They're not gonna want to shoot a journalist."

  The door opened. "Dammit, Parker, where are you?"

  A man stepped through. As he turned toward the muffled figure cloaked with a sack, Debbie identified the profile of Quinn Hawkins.

  "What do we have here?" he asked as he reached his hand out and brushed the captive's breast.

  The figure jerked. "Fuckin' pervert!"

  "Parker?" Hawkins said.

  Flannery stepped forward and pressed his gun into Hawkins's back, smack dab in the center of his shoulder blades. "I suggest you put your hands in the air. Don't even dream of turning around."

  That's when Debbie and Jarrett slipped out the office door.

  "You've gotta lead the way," Debbie said. "I don't know how to get out of here."

  The area where she'd been held hostage gave way to a cavernous space. Dark tracks were still mounted to the ceiling, a suspended railroad that once moved steel sheets high above the factory floor. But the machines on the floor that once fed the metal were long gone. In their place were rows of cars, some intact, some stripped, some hovering in the space between. It was a chop shop that would draw little attention since the nearest neighbors consisted of rats and barges; a staging area where whole cars and parts of cars could be shipped easily and without notice.

  "Holy crap," Debbie whispered. No wonder so many people were complaining about stolos. She followed Jarrett's lead, crouching behind each car, stopping occasionally so Jarrett could check for approaching feet while Debbie kept watch above.

  Parker's gun was cold against her lower back. She'd slipped it into her waistband, a spot where she could retrieve it quickly. Debbie didn't trust herself to carry the weapon in her hand, afraid she might accidentally unlock the safety or panic and pull the trigger, shooting the wrong person. Plus, as they made their way across the floor in a crouched position, it took all of her effort to stay balanced and move silently. She didn't need the extra weight of a gun in her grasp. It would just make her clumsier.

  "We've got product to move!" Debbie heard a man shout. She knew that voice. But she still couldn't place it.

  Jarrett stopped, looked back at Debbie, and pointed to the floor. Debbie looked under the car. She could see a pair of black dress shoes approaching, the dust from the gravel outside only slightly smudging an otherwise flawless polish. She noticed navy, cuffed dress pants that had been tailored to break neatly at the top of the shoe. Whoever it was, he had money. A tailor. And taste.

  If they stayed frozen, the man would be able to glimpse the pair hiding behind a car. There was no going back. And staying where they were wasn't an option. Debbie reached back and pulled out the gun Flannery had given her.

  "Go!" she whispered to Jarrett. "I'm right behind you. I got you covered."

  "You better follow me," Jarrett said, part plea, part warning, just before he took off for the entrance.

  Debbie turned back around to see Flannery peering at her through the door.

  "Robertson, come and get me!" Flannery shouted to the mayor, the owner of the dress shoes Debbie had just seen.

  "Detective?" Robertson shouted back, approaching the spot where Debbie was frozen.

  Jarrett had made it to the entrance. Flannery was stepping out of the office. Robertson focused his attention on his one-time partner. Debbie knew that Flannery was doing this to increase her chances of escape.

  Debbie was torn. She could stay and help Flannery. Or she could watch Jarrett's back.

  "Go!" was the lone word she heard from Flannery. Her legs obeyed his command.

  That's when she heard gunshots.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ruin

  "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

  Debbie could hear Jarrett screaming the words as the pair emerged from the factory. His form was a dark outline set against the blinding glare that had flooded everything in front of them. His hands were as high in the air as humanly possible.

  "Drop your gun!" came a voice from other side of the wall of light.

  "Miss Debbie, your gun!" Jarrett shouted.

  "Freeze! Drop your gun!" the voice commanded.

  Jarrett halted. Debbie followed his lead. "Your gun, Miss Debbie, your gun! You're gonna get us killed!" Jarrett yelled, even as the shots inside the factory continued to ring out.

  As if waking from a stupor, Debbie realized she still had Parker's service revolver in her hand, even though it was held high above her head. She tossed it away, the firearm landing with a thud in the gravel.

  "Get down on the ground!"

  Jarrett dropped down face first, his arms and legs spread out from his body.

  Remembering Flannery's advice, Debbie shouted, "I'm a journalist. He's a hostage. A kid. His uncle's a cop."

  Debbie could hear Jarrett's muffled voice shout, "Sergeant Davis."

  Amplifying his message, Debbie repeated the name: "Sergeant Davis!"

  "Jarrett?" Debbie heard a man yell.

  "Get down on the ground," another voice commanded.

  Debbie fell to the ground, imitating Jarrett. Police officers rushed forward. Some passed Jarrett and Debbie, sprinting toward the factory. Four surrounded Jarrett. Another four fell on Debbie.

  The reporter felt her hands being pulled behind her back. For the second time that night, she was bound at the wrists. This time, with handcuffs. Hands patted her down. Then she was lifted to a stand. She was at the center of this drama, and yet she also felt removed from it, her consciousness rising up from her physical form, viewing the scene like a spectator even as her brain continued to jot down notes.

  "I'm Debbie Bradley. That's Jarrett Compton. I was kidnapped. Jarrett, Detective Flannery, they tried to help me. The detective is still in there. Officer Parker. Mayor Robertson. Bad guys," Debbie said as quickly as possible, trying to get them to understand what was going on.

  She could hear the chopping blades of a he
licopter overhead. A spotlight beamed down on them from above. Jarrett was also spitting out the story as fast, and as disjointed, as Debbie.

  "Get those handcuffs off my nephew!"

  Debbie watched as Jarrett's hands were freed. A man, presumably Jarrett's uncle, pulled the boy close, his words part anger, part fear: "What the hell are you doing here?!"

  "That's the reporter, the one who wrote about me," Jarrett said, nodding his head to Debbie.

  "Uncuff her," Davis bellowed.

  "You gotta help Detective Flannery. He's outnumbered in there," Debbie pleaded.

  "Get them back," Sergeant Davis shouted, referring to his nephew and the journalist. "Out of the way."

  Debbie and Jarrett were pushed forward and away from the factory, their legs following the commands of the hands that had grabbed their arms. Finally, once behind a line of cop cars, they were freed with a command to get down. The pair could finally stop and catch their breath.

  Once again, Debbie tried to explain what was happening inside the factory. Trying to sort the good guys from the bad.

  The shooting stopped.

  "Person down!" she heard someone shout.

  "Come out with your hands in the air. You're surrounded."

  A cacophony of shouts swirled about the reporter. She was trying to identify the voices, parsing them into the categories of helpers and hostage takers.

  The media should arrive any minute now. They're probably already on the way. And she couldn't help but think: This is my story.

  Debbie peered over the hood of a squad car, trying to figure out what was going on even as she briefly registered her possessiveness over a story she'd fallen into so deeply that she'd never come out objective on the other side.

  Parker and Hawkins emerged from the factory, their hands in the air.

  A group of six officers surrounded Parker and Hawkins. At least ten cops ran past them, into the factory with their guns drawn.

  "Get a stretcher in here," someone shouted.

  Debbie raised herself to a full standing position, watching as Parker and Hawkins were handcuffed.

  A medical bed on wheels went inside the abandoned building, along with a couple of paramedics. Where they'd come from, how they got there, Debbie had no clue. Events had overtaken her. Now, all she could do was watch from behind the line of safety.

  Three officers emerged from the factory. Behind them, a stretcher. A sheet covered the body. All Debbie could make out were the shoes. They were the dress shoes she'd spotted under the car inside the factory.

  "Oh my God," Debbie said to everyone--and no one.

  Five more figures appeared. Two uniformed officers flanked each side. The man in the middle: Detective Flannery.

  When Flannery emerged from the factory and started barking orders, relief softened Debbie's tense face. He was bleeding, yet again. This time, it seemed that paramedics were rushing to put pressure on his upper arm.

  Flannery shouted, "Where's the writer hack and the kid? I sure as hell hope no one shot them!"

  "We're here!" Debbie and Jarrett blurted out in unison.

  The pain flowed as the adrenaline ebbed. Every part of her body ached. After being pushed, dropped, and pulled like a stuffed Raggedy Ann, it was no wonder that she was bruised and battered. Fortunately, nothing was broken.

  Flannery continued barking even as he was being led to an ambulance. "Call Beth Hughes. Get a car to her house. Get her down here," Flannery ordered. "Sergeant Davis!"

  "Yo, Detective," Jarrett's uncle said.

  Flannery replied, "You've got one very stupid, very smart, very brave nephew."

  Debbie saw Jarrett beam.

  "Yeah, his grandfather was the smart one. He gets the bravery from me. I'd say the stupid part is my sister, but that don't tell her I said that," Sergeant Davis shot back.

  "Ha!" Flannery bantered back. "You know where I'd lay the stupid."

  As Flannery was about to step into the ambulance he stopped and laughed. "Bradley?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If there's such a thing as karma, you're going to get a taste of it. Let me know how you feel after the reporters descend and shove a mic in your face."

  Jarrett's parents flanked either side of the boy protectively as he gave a statement to the police. The sergeant stood next to his sister, scowling whenever the cop who quizzed his nephew asked a question too severely.

  Debbie watched the scene from afar. She'd been pulled away from the teen so that they could give their accounts separately, neither tainting the other's recollections. But she occasionally paused as she recounted her story so she could see how Jarrett was faring.

  She also couldn't miss the line of television news vans had been kept at bay behind yellow tape. Debbie knew they were waiting for her--just as she had waited to ask questions of many other victims. Would she try to slip away in a squad car or stop for an interview? She still hadn't decided.

  A police SUV squeezed past the media, stopping near Debbie. Beth Hughes emerged from the back seat. The lawyer, clad in a faded pair of Levi's, a white T-shirt, and running shoes, took long strides toward her daughter. The only thing that betrayed her mother's legendary cool was how rapidly she crossed the distance, her hair getting a lift from the haste that she made.

  It was first time Debbie noticed how even authority figures like officers parted as her mother passed. More than one man stole a quick admiring glance at her middle-aged mom before returning to his task.

  And suddenly, Debbie felt her mother wrapping her arms around her. Beth's hands were trembling, the only clue Debbie had that her mother was totally and completely freaking out.

  "Daniel called me," Beth said.

  "Daniel?" Debbie answered.

  "Detective Flannery. He called me from the ambulance. Can you believe that? I could hear beeping noises and paramedics, and he's calling me."

  "He saved my life," Debbie said. "Well, he did--with the help of Jarrett."

  "Daniel said you've done some amazing work. He also said you've been through a lot. You might be a little bit shaken up."

  "I don't know how I feel," Debbie admitted. "Right now, I feel numb. It's as if I'm watching me as an actor in a movie."

  Beth nodded. "Normal. Very normal reaction to a traumatic event. I brought you something. I don't know if it will help you regain a sense of control, of balance," Beth said as she reached into her purse.

  "Oh my God. Thank you!" Debbie said as she reached toward the reporter's notebook and pen that Beth had brought.

  Debbie scribbled Kidnap #1 on her notebook's white cardboard cover. She flipped it open and began to write.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Connections

  The seven days following Debbie's ordeal had melted one into another.

  After the police had finished questioning Debbie on the night she was kidnapped, she stopped for a brief media interview. She praised Jarrett and Detective Flannery, and she didn't shy away from naming her hostage takers.

  Her mother, without being asked, turned from lawyer to PR handler, using her quick thinking to deflect hard questions. Sensing an opportunity, Beth played up her role as a concerned mother to gracefully edge her daughter out of the view of the cameras and into a police SUV waiting to take them home.

  Debbie's conscience felt better. She had cooperated with the media. And yet, she'd also been able to hold back some of the juicy details about motive for her own story. The reporter knew it would leak out soon enough. But perhaps if she went home and wrote, she'd be the first to fill in all the details of that night. And she was the only one who could fully tell her own story.

  Unable to sleep when she arrived home, Debbie wrote, a first draft being ready for Sam that next morning. She fell asleep for a few hours, got up, and reviewed his edits. Her story about the tow truck scandal, the flood of stolen guns on the street, was out by the end of the day.

  Over the next few days, even as she recovered from home, Debbie continued to work the phones--and her sour
ces. When indictments were handed down, the public information officer for the cops made sure she got a copy.

  Debbie continued to write from her room. Sam continued to edit and then publish the latest installment on Crime Beat Girl.

  What Toni Parker had said was true. The corruption started with the tow truck company. And it had started before Toni Parker ever joined the force. The tow truck company had figured out a way to skim money from the city through tows. And the more they made, the greedier they got.

  Mayor Robertson had figured it out when he was on the force. He used the information to his own advantage. Like so many politicians, his supposed principles were no match for his lust for power. When he found something he wanted, nothing would get in his way.

  He used his cut to make donations to other politicians, to help them get elected. And they, in turn, helped him move up the ranks, from alderman and then to mayor. All the while, he still gave Ace Towing a helping hand.

  Off the record, Flannery told Debbie that he had long suspected Ace Towing and Robertson. But the detective was damaged goods, having been framed long ago for shaking down drug dealers. A setup that Flannery suspected was caused by Robertson. A way to stop Flannery's ascent, and to perhaps get the woman Robertson wanted, Flannery's wife.

  Like Robertson, Parker had also figured it out. "When a good cop loses faith," Flannery told Debbie by phone, "the results can be disastrous. There's a ring of truth to those comic book superhero/supervillain stories, you know? Only I was too blind to see her slip. I blame myself for that."

  Parker had said nothing, invoking her Fifth Amendment rights against self-incrimination.

  But Quinn Hawkins had been singing like a hairy fat man in a hot shower.

  Parker's description of the car ring had been accurate. And Hawkins said it had been Parker's idea to push the guns that owners left in their cars back out onto the street. It was her signature contribution.

  Chaos theory and the butterfly effect explained Joshua Lucas, Roberto Simmons, Travis Hunt, the carjacking outside the grocery store, and the murder outside the abandoned building. Debbie had been searching for the string tying them all together. If Ace Towing hadn't been stealing cars and placing them on the streets for "cleaning," Rainaa Mercer might still be alive. If Toni Parker hadn't flooded the streets with stolen guns, and Hank Frederich had locked his up, perhaps Travis Hunt would still be alive. The carjacking of the mom at the grocery store might never have happened.