The EMS vehicle in the parking lot told him that his good friend, Johnny Garrett, was already inside the restaurant, probably flirting with a waitress or two.
Had Johnny’s type III ambulance not been in the parking lot, Pete might not have noticed the yellow Corvette, the second of Angel Cruz’s mistakes, parked next to it.
Just hours earlier, Pete remembered picking up on an APB for a yellow Corvette. He slowly pulled into a parking spot behind the splendid sports car, put his cruiser in park, and pulled the on-board swivel-mounted laptop computer toward him. In short order he had confirmed this was indeed the vehicle associated with the APB. He even had a picture, although not a very good one, of Angel Cruz.
The APB advised to approach the subject with caution. This was a level below armed and dangerous, but Pete had no intention of being anything less than very careful—as he was trained to be. He called it in, quickly wheel-booted the Corvette so it could not be driven, then made his way to the restaurant.
Crossing East Lake Road, he had to wait just a few seconds for two cars to pass. As Pete arrived at the restaurant’s green canvas entrance canopy, a man with perfect hair and empty eyes, carrying a couple of bottles of wine as if he intended to use them as weapons, was hurriedly making his way out of the restaurant. So focused was his exit that he brushed against Pete’s left shoulder without so much as an “excuse me.” The bump was significant enough that it might have caused Pete to have words with the ill-mannered offender, had it not been for the more pressing agenda at hand.
Since the hostess was not at her station, Pete made his way directly to the dining room. It was still a bit early for the evening crowd, so he was able to scan the room pretty quickly. He saw Johnny right away, but no immediate sign of Angel Cruz. Johnny was chatting with one of the young servers and had her giggling and blushing slightly. Pete shook his head from side to side, unable to avoid cracking a slight smile, despite the situation. Some things are just too predictable, he thought.
As Pete walked over to the table, Johnny stood up, spewing banter regarding his friend’s tardiness. Pete absently shook Johnny’s hand and fired up an unexpected conversation with the server. “I need to talk with you discreetly for a second.”
The young lady’s carefree expression instantly changed to the look of a deer caught in headlights; she hoped whatever was coming was just a joke.
“Please don’t react or look around right now, but I need you to tell me whether someone is here.”
Johnny interrupted with more poorly timed wittiness. “Oh, you’re good. Man, I thought I was original.”
Pete just looked at Johnny hard, telling him without words that this was no joke. Johnny became quiet.
Pete switched his gaze back to the server. “What’s your name?”
“Sarah.”
“Okay Sarah, I’m gonna show you a picture and you tell me if he’s here. You just nod for yes or shake your head for no, okay?”
Sarah nodded nervously. Pete held the picture so she could see it, using his body to shield it from other angles of view. Sarah nodded again, deliberately this time.
“Don’t look, but tell me where?”
Despite the instruction, she moved her eyes, but only her eyes, to her left to glance very discreetly at a far table. “They were in the table at the far corner over your right shoulder, but they’re not there now.”
“They?”
“The guy in the picture and another man, a serious-looking guy with molded hair. I think the guy in the picture went to the men’s room. I don’t know what happened to the other guy.” The recent memory of his brush with the unfriendly man at the restaurant door flashed into Pete’s mind.
Pete asked Johnny to keep an eye on the front door. The two men opened a cell phone call so Johnny could alert Pete if he saw anything. Then Pete, Bluetooth headset in ear, began his search for Angel Cruz—starting with the men’s room.
The restroom appeared to be empty, but in short order, Pete determined there was someone sitting in one of the stalls. As he lowered his head to glance at the individual’s feet, he could see no bunched-up trousers around them. It seemed likely that whoever was there was hiding.
He stood to the side of the stall door, his heart beginning to thump palpably. Pete Silks was a man with a cool head, but he was also a man with an unpredictable and potentially dangerous situation on his hands.
“This is the Rochester PD. Please slowly exit the stall with your hands where I can see them.”
Pete’s strong, steady voice exposed no flavors of fear or doubt to the only person who could hear it, Johnny Garrett. Johnny’s heart was pounding now too.
Pete waited for fifteen seconds. No response. No movement.
Then he glanced at the subject’s feet again and noticed something else. The individual’s feet were not flat on the floor—not at all in a position conducive to making a quick exit to evade police. More like someone who might be unconscious. Whoever this person was, it was possible he was in trouble.
“I repeat: this is the Rochester PD. Please slowly exit the stall with your hands in the air.”
Pete waited again.
Then he made his move, swiftly kicking in the stall door, gun raised, hoping he wasn’t launching into an up close and personal ambush. The door burst open, slamming against the inside of the stall. One look at Angel Cruz was enough to tell Pete what kind of help he needed.
“Johnny!”
Johnny pulled his suddenly-too-loud cell phone away from his ear in self-defense, then quickly responded. “Yeah Pete?”
“Get in here!”
Chapter 62
Although he had a strong feeling that he had found what he was looking for, Chad wasn’t sure exactly what it was that he had found.
The “room” created by the hollow in the sea of barrels wasn’t all that big—perhaps twelve feet wide by fifteen feet deep. There was a large industrial looking tank on the longer side of the room, farther from where Chad was standing. He guessed correctly that the chemical smell, which on the odor meter came in somewhere between quite annoying and kill me please, was emanating from the tank. There was a narrow staircase off to one side that led to what appeared to be a catwalk or narrow loft area above the tank.
A fairly sophisticated control panel was mounted off to the side of the tank, probably for controlling the block and tackle system overhead. As he walked slowly toward the control panel, constantly checking from side to side, he picked up on the first of several disturbing things he was about to see: explosive grade wiring leading to a detonation button near the control panel.
He followed one run of the wire as far as he could until it ran under one of the barrel racks behind the tank. As he looked through the small open spaces of the barrel rack, he could see the concrete block of the outside wall. But the concrete block wasn’t all he saw.
There was also what appeared to be about five to ten pounds of plastic explosive pressed up against the wall, possibly C4 but more likely Semtex, judging from the darker, red-orange color. He climbed up on one of the barrel racks to get a different angle so he could see another section of the wall. As he suspected, there was another huge glob of plastic explosive. He repeated the process again and concluded there were five to ten pounds of Semtex every fifteen or so feet along the outside wall. This will not do.
He took a closer look at the control panel and detonation switch and saw the next disturbing thing—a receiver for a remote detonation signal. This really won’t do.
Chad decided that he absolutely did not want to stay in this building without at least disabling both detonators, the hardwired one and the remote. This wouldn’t be difficult—he just needed to make zero mistakes.
In just a few minutes, he had the detonators disabled, but as he began to consider his next step, he noticed something else: wires that appeared to run from the loft area to the outside wall. This could mean only one thing. There was a third detonator up in the loft. He thought for a second and came to the c
onclusion that he needed to disable that one too.
Chad worked his way slowly and carefully up the narrow stairway to the loft. Neither the stairway nor the loft itself had safety railings. Chad had an internal chuckle as he considered reporting Michael for the code violation.
The loft was pretty sparse, except for what appeared to be years of dust, disturbed only by the occasional footprint. There was a small window which provided a view of anything approaching from the outside. And of course, there was the detonator, just within reach of the window. This was a last stand, blaze-of-glory loft.
There was one other object in the loft and, fatefully, Chad decided to check it out before actually disabling the detonator. He worked his way over to the corner to take a look at the large, hard-sided suitcase. It was covered with dust but not as much as it should have been considering the amount of dust everywhere else. This suitcase was accessed, at least occasionally.
He expected it to be locked. In less than a minute, part of him would be wishing it had been.
Dropping to his knees, he grabbed the handle, slid the suitcase out from the corner, and positioned it in front of him. To his surprise, the latches sprang open, emitting a clang and a buzz. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find as he brought the lid up.
Jewelry. Neatly fastened to a black velvet board. A dainty label tied to each ring, necklace, bracelet, or pair of earrings. Written on the labels: the names of places, wine producing regions of the country—Sonoma County, Willamette Valley, Long Island’s North Fork, Napa Valley, Loudoun County, and on and on.
Chad’s mind worked frantically to connect the dots. What is this? He didn’t want to face what he feared it was, but what he saw next forced him to.
Squarely in the middle of all the assorted treasures was a ring without a tag. He picked it up in disbelief. His breath became labored as he began to swoon with the rush of emotion. In his hand was the engagement ring he had given to Jill Paulson at the summit of Bald Mountain almost twenty-five years ago. He understood with certainty now what he really already knew: Jill was dead. He also had confirmation that what he had found was, indeed, the grim trophy case of a serial monster.
He cradled his head in his hands for two full minutes, unable to do anything else. But he had to finish this. He forced himself slowly to his feet.
Just as he stood upright, Chad felt a sharp stinging and instinctively moved his hand to the location on the side of his thigh. A dart? What?
“I would stay away from the edge there, old buddy,” said the voice of Michael Murdoch from the hollow below as he lowered his tranq gun.
Chad staggered, disoriented, consciousness fading rapidly.
“Oh, and this stuff works pretty fast. You might want to—”
Michael was interrupted by Chad limply crashing to the surface of the loft’s floor.
“—sit down,” Michael completed with his evil grin.
Chapter 63
The bright ringing of her house phone woke Jane Mannix with a start. She turned her head to check the time on the digital alarm clock on her night table; it was 2:30 AM. Her mind raced to catch up with what might be going on and who could be calling her in the middle of the night. Davy? Clearing her head, she remembered with relief, that Davy was home. Releasing the sudden tension with a sigh, she reached over and answered the call.
It was Morgan Swan, and it was easy to tell she was pretty anxious about something.
“Jane, I’m sorry to be calling you at this hour.”
“Morgan. Oh it’s okay, no problem. What is it?”
“Has my father been in contact with you recently?”
“What? No. Why do you ask?”
“He was supposed to check in with me over two hours ago. When I spoke with him this morning—yesterday morning now I guess—he said he was in upstate New York. I couldn’t think what else he would be doing there but meeting with you.”
“No Morgan, I’m sorry. I haven’t heard from him.”
Silence.
Jane thought they might have lost connection. “Morgan?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. Just trying to figure out what I should do.”
“When exactly did you last hear from him?”
Morgan checked her watch—again. “Almost fifteen hours ago.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. That’s not a long time, really.”
“You don’t understand. He promised me he would call me to check in every twelve hours. And when I spoke with him around noon, he specifically said he would call me again sometime before midnight. And he isn’t answering his mobile either. Something is wrong. I know it.”
Silence again.
“Are you worried enough about it to call the police to see if they could help?”
“I really don’t want to do that. They are already looking for him anyway, so I doubt they could do anything more than they’re already doing.”
More silence.
Jane couldn’t believe what her mouth said next. “Do you want to come here and put our heads together? Maybe I can help. At least you’d be closer to where he was when you last heard from him.”
“You’d be okay with that?”
Thoughts of Detective Drake flashed into Jane’s head. He would likely be very unhappy with her for working with Morgan, particularly without telling him first. But her need to help the young woman was stronger than her fear of being scolded and scorned by Drake, regardless of how nice a guy he was. He was a big boy. He would just have to get over it.
“Of course,” Jane said.
“You sure?” Morgan pressed, sensing hesitation in Jane’s voice.
“Absolutely.” Jane’s response was quick and firm this time. “We can work from here as a home base until he turns up. I have something I’d like to return to him anyway. I can give it to you when you’re here.”
“You have something of my dad’s?”
“Some things that Jill had in a box that I think were his. No big deal really, just some stuff he may want to have. I don’t know, I just thought—”
“Sure, sure, that’s very thoughtful. I’m sure he’d like that. Would it be okay if I left here in about an hour? I’m having trouble sleeping and I’d just as soon get going. That would put me there around 8:00 AM. Is that too early?”
“Not at all. I’ll have coffee and a hot breakfast ready for you. Just be careful driving and take a break if you get tired.”
“I will.”
“You have the address?”
“Yes, you gave it to me the last time we spoke.”
“Okay then, just give me a call if you get lost or anything. I’m looking forward to meeting you in person.”
“Me too. Thanks, Jane.”
After hanging up, Jane had trouble sleeping too, unsure what she was getting herself into, but at the same time thinking she was doing the right thing.
Morgan was on her way within an hour, after leaving a very nice note for her Aunt Paula, expressing thanks for the hospitality and apologizing for her abrupt departure.
After tossing and turning for what she was sure had to be the better part of what was left of the night, Jane looked over at her alarm clock to see exactly how much damage had been done to her night’s sleep. Since it was 5:25 AM, the answer was quite a bit. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind, to think about nothing at all.
What felt like two minutes later, Jane was awakened by someone ringing the door bell. She noticed daylight coming through the windows and took a panicked look at the clock. It was 8:20 AM. She sprang up out of bed, instantly wide awake. Morgan had arrived.
Jane ran to the closet, threw on a housecoat, and flew down the stairs. Before opening the door, she took a brief moment to check herself in the foyer mirror, but in short order, decided to give up.
She opened the door to find a tense but smiling Morgan Swan.
“Morgan, please come in. I’m sorry I—”
“Jane, please don’t worry about anything. I appreciate your help so much.”
Morgan stepped into the foyer and the two shared a brief, friendly embrace. Jane seemed younger than Morgan had expected. She knew Jane was probably ten years younger than her father, but she seemed even younger than that, although it might just have been that she was so darned pretty, even having apparently just woken up.
“I’m afraid I don’t have that breakfast ready for you just yet, but we can fire up a quick cup of coffee.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
A few minutes later, the two were sitting at Jane’s kitchen table with hot cups of aromatic blend. Morgan glanced around the neat kitchen and complimented Jane on her house and the way she kept it. She noticed a cardboard file box in the corner with a heart drawn on it in red marker and one word written inside the heart: Chad.
“I guess that’s the stuff for my dad, right?” Morgan asked, motioning toward the lonely-looking box.
“Yes, that’s it. Memorabilia my sister was keeping. I remember when she drew that heart on the box.”
Morgan sat in silent thought, sympathetic but conflicted over whether she really wanted anything to do with reminders of a relationship her father had with another woman before he met her mother.
“Well anyway, I thought Chad may want to have it,” Jane said, in a more upbeat tone.
“I’m sure he will appreciate it—if we ever find him.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”
“I know. I’m just a little frustrated and tired.”
“Didn’t he say anything about where he was or what he was doing?” Jane asked.
“No, not really. He just said he was in upstate New York and he was still working things out. When I pressed him, he just responded with some wise crack about visiting some non-existent uncle. That’s just my dad’s way of shutting you down when he doesn’t want to answer a question.”
Romeo's Tell (A disappearance mystery turned international thriller) Page 18