“Getz can go fuck himself,” Tom said.
“He was upset with me, too,” Gary Little continued. “Said he wanted to see me in his office this afternoon to discuss my future with the department. He said due to yesterday’s activities, he had good reason to fire me.”
“What the fuck is he talking about?”
“I don’t know, but I think he has an idea we went to Grecko, so I made a call to my FBI contact to keep the case open.”
That would sound like Getz, all right. No doubt somebody at the local FBI bureau made some inquiries yesterday about the case and Getz had gotten wind of it. His job was probably going to be shit-canned, too. “Jesus Christ, this is just too much.”
“I know,” Gary said. “And I’m sorry. We tried.”
“They don’t have a suspect in Franklin’s murder yet?”
“No. And I know it’s related to the Valesquez case. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.”
“Goddamn right! Which is why we need to do something!”
“And end up like Franklin?” Gary sounded scared. “I’m not kidding you, Tom, I think this shit is bigger than either of us realized. I mean...I totally believe that some heavy shit was covered up during the original murder trial and there were some crooked cops on the force that were probably in on the activity at the Valesquez house, but...it’s not going to be easy to find out more. We’re probably going to be out of jobs by this afternoon, Franklin’s dead, somebody’s stalking Robert Valesquez...somebody wants to keep this thing quiet for whatever reason they have. I think we need to...”
“You think we need to give up?” Tom said, feeling the anger start to rise in him now. “You can give up if you want to, but not me. Franklin wouldn’t have wanted it, and we still owe it to Douglas Archer and his family.”
“Tom!” Gary protested.
Tom hung up the phone.
He sat on the bed, a wave of conflicting emotions raging within: sorrow and grief over losing his partner and best friend in the department, despair over the way things were rapidly turning out, anger at what was happening. He felt like he was on the verge of exploding.
Those motherfuckers...
Now they were making it personal.
God help them.
DANNY'S HANGOVER THE following morning was pounding. The strong coffee he brewed wasn’t enough to beat back its resounding waves. He sat at the kitchen counter, bleary-eyed, skimming the morning newspaper without really reading it, his mind still chasing his conversation with Tom Jensen from last night.
There was no way James Whitsett was responsible for the atrocities Tom mentioned. He was not the kind of man given to the kind of vices Tom described. He was a family man, he’d loved his son dearly; hell, he’d been a nervous wreck when Bobby was killed. Danny saw first hand the emotional turmoil that went on at the Whitsett house following Bobby’s death. A man that would go through that much pain, that much sorrow...there was no way anybody capable of that kind of outpouring of grief would be capable of committing such heinous acts on another human being.
Especially children.
The man had a child of his own...a son that Danny only saw being treated with the utmost love and respect from his father.
That was what Danny told himself in the hours after Tom Jensen left as he drank himself to oblivion.
Now shortly after ten o’clock, hung over and head pounding, he still couldn’t accept it. Robert Valesquez was full of shit; so was David Bartell for that matter. Even if Raul Valesquez was abused in some way and some of the shit that Tom Jensen described did go down, it didn’t mean James was involved. As far as he knew, James wasn’t even aware of the Valesquez family; he’d never once seen him near their house. Bobby never mentioned anything about his dad even so much as glancing at the place or giving the Valesquez kids the time of day.
There was no way he could be involved in what Tom Jensen had insinuated last night.
Still, he did remember James talking to Eva Valesquez in private a few times after Tuesday evening catechism when she came by to pick up Rudy.
And it had been weird to run into James yesterday out of the blue like that.
More than weird.
Pretty damn freaky.
Danny set down his coffee cup and on a whim picked up the phone. He dialed his mother’s work number from memory, not really knowing what he was going to say, just wanting to hear her voice and, maybe, if the opportunity presented itself, mention to her that he’d seen James Whitsett.
“Tony Warsaw’s office, Barbara speaking.”
“Mom, it’s Danny.”
“Danny!” Mom’s voice was sunny. “How’s it going?”
“Fine. How are things over there?”
“Not so bad. You working today?”
“Yeah, I don’t go in until a little after noon.”
“That’s good, real good, honey.” He could hear his mother shuffling papers at her desk where she worked as a secretary at the Triple A, the company she’d been working at since she’d divorced Dad. “Hey, you’ll never guess who I ran into yesterday!”
“Who?”
“James Whitsett!”
Danny’s stomach shriveled. His grip on the receiver tightened. “You serious?”
“Yes! Isn’t that great? He just—"
“Where’d you see him?” He tried to keep the shakiness from his voice.
“He was in the neighborhood checking out a house. He said he’s a real estate agent now.” Mom was practically gushing. “He must be doing real good down in San Diego. You should’ve seen the Benz he was driving.”
“I bet,” Danny said, stunned by this sudden news.
“I’d just gotten home,” Mom went on, her voice happy, a slight lilt in it that he hadn’t heard in years. In fact, the last time he’d heard her sound this way was—"...And I’d just pulled the car into the driveway. We have so much stuff in the garage now it’s impossible to pull even one car into it. I was heading to the front door when I heard my name called and I turned around and there he was! I recognized him instantly.”
Dawning realization hit Danny like a nuclear explosion as he listened to his mother rattle on about James Whitsett magically reappearing in her life as the memories flashed by: the times James and Mom had driven him and Bobby to various skateboard parks, Mom dropping by the Whitsett house to pick him up and talking with James for extended periods in the kitchen; the late night dinners with friends after work that just so conveniently coincided with nights he spent at Bobby’s house when James wasn’t around...
...the brief period of time this was happening and his mother had that same girlish glee in her voice...
...her heart-breaking sorrow when Bobby was killed...how she’d cried and cried in James Whitsett’s arms at the wake...
...the few times he remembered seeing them in the years following that horrible incident...how friendly and warm they’d always seemed toward one another.
Oh, my God!
“...he was so impressed with the pictures of Chris and Tina,” Mom continued, her gushing voice clearly evident now. “In fact, when he asked where the kids and their mother lived and I mentioned they were in Carson near the mall, he said he’d just been in that area showing a house. Well, I knew Karen has been looking to buy, so I gave her number to him to see if he could—"
“You gave Karen’s phone number to James?” Danny’s heart froze.
“Well...yes, of course. I mean, Karen’s been looking for a bigger place for a few months now and the prices are just so outrageous and I thought—"
“I gotta go, Mom,” Danny said, quickly hanging up on her, his mind reeling, his blood ice in his veins. He got up and began pacing the living room, trying to force himself to be calm.
Jesus fucking Christ, she gave him Karen’s number, he’s probably already called, probably already talked to her and knows where my fucking kids live!
He dived for the phone and punched in Karen’s home phone number, his fingers trem
bling.
There was no answer.
He let the phone go into voice mail and hung up, wondering what to do next. Maybe everything was fine. It was a Tuesday, so Karen would be at work and the kids would be at school. That explained why nobody answered at the house.
He looked up Karen’s number at work and dialed it carefully.
It rang four times and went straight into her voice mail.
Frowning, Danny pushed ‘0’ for the receptionist and when she answered he asked for Karen Hernandez.
“She’s not in today,” the receptionist said in a bored tone.
“This is Danny, her husband,” Danny said. No use trying to tell them I’m her ex-husband; no way would they tell me anything if I told them the truth. “I’m kind of worried about her. Was she supposed to report in today, or did she take the day off or something?”
“I’ll transfer you to her supervisor,” the receptionist said, and Danny was put on hold, than transferred to another number that was picked up on the second ring. Danny asked the woman who picked up if Karen was in today. “No, she never showed up,” the woman said. “She hasn’t called in yet, either.”
“Thanks,” Danny said, quickly hanging up, the dread in his belly getting heavier.
Please, don’t tell me this is happening, he thought as he paged through his phone book, looking for the number to the elementary school Chris and Tina attended. He found the number and dialed it carefully. When it was answered he explained that he was the father of Chris and Tina Hernandez and was calling to inquire if his children had reported to school this morning. The receptionist politely asked him to wait and put him on hold for a few minutes, which felt like a few hours. When somebody came back on the line again it was with the same tone of voice the receptionist at Karen’s employer displayed; bored, indifferent. “Chris and Tina haven’t reported to class this morning, Mr. Hernandez. You might try calling Karen at work.”
Danny replaced the receiver slowly, the heaviness in his stomach moving up to his chest, squeezing his heart.
You won’t believe who I saw last night! James Whitsett!...When I mentioned Karen was looking for a new place I gave him her number...He’s in real estate now...You should’ve seen the Benz he was driving.
Oh my God, what the hell is happening?
The phone rang.
The sudden ringing startled him. He picked it up quickly, not even checking the LED readout to see who it was. “Hello?”
“Danny!”
At first Danny didn’t recognize the voice. “Yeah?”
“James Whitsett here.”
Danny felt his throat constrict.
“You there, Danny?”
“I’m here,” Danny said, trying to control the shakiness in his voice.
“You okay? You sound...rather stressed.”
“I’m fine...I’m...really, I’m fine,” Danny said, trying to figure out how to bring up the subject of his ex-wife and kids to the father of his childhood best friend.
“We need to talk, Danny.”
“What about?”
“I think you know.”
“Do you have my kids? My wife? Where are they?”
“I thought you were divorced? I don’t seem to remember you saying anything about Karen and—"
“You motherfucker, you better not hurt them,” Danny said, bolting up from the sofa.
“Who said anything about hurting them?” James Whitsett’s voice was calm. “And who said I even have them? What are you talking about?”
Danny started. “What did you say?”
“I asked, what are you talking about? You’re sounding like you’re out of your mind, Danny.”
Maybe I’m letting the stress get to me, Danny thought. I don’t remember mentioning Karen to him at all. He could feel his legs weaken as he moved back to the couch. He sat down, at a loss for what to do, wanting to trust James Whitsett more than anything, but afraid to. “Nothing...it’s just that...listen, I can’t talk right now.” A sudden pain spiked his stomach and he almost doubled over from the intensity of it. “Listen, I gotta go.” He quickly placed the handset in the cradle, his stomach spasming with pain again.
He doubled over, his stomach wracking with agony. He wondered if it was a reoccurrence of the weird flu-like symptoms he’d had yesterday or if it was just stress. And then there was James Whitsett’s call...if he didn’t have Karen and the kids, where were they? And why did James call in the first place?
And how did he get my number?
These thoughts went through his mind as he made the decision to call Jerry Valdez one last time.
The phone rang.
Danny started, instantly thinking it was James Whitsett again.
The LED readout indicated it was coming from Jerry Valdez.
He picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Danny? It’s Jerry.”
“Jerry! Damn, man, I was just going to call you.” Danny felt a rush of relief come over him. “Some weird shit is happening, man, and I’m more scared to death now than—"
“You okay, Danny?” Jerry’s voice sounded weird, like he was simultaneously amazed to hear the sound of his voice, yet afraid to hear it.
“No, I’m not fine! Listen, James Whitsett came by last night. You know, Bobby’s father? And Tom Jensen told me some shit about James that—"
“I think you need to get over here, Danny,” Jerry said, that same odd tone in his voice.
Danny stopped talking, his blood freezing. He did not like the tone of Jerry’s voice. “Why?”
There was a sound in the background and then another voice came on the line.
It was James Whitsett.
“You do remember how to get here, don’t you, Danny?”
Danny almost fainted. His mind swirled, a black pang of paranoia and despair. “No...”
“No, you don’t know how to get here, or no, you won’t?”
“I...” Danny said, trying to force the words out. It was true then. All true. Everything Tom Jensen said was bearing fruit. James Whitsett had betrayed him; the man he’d looked up to when he was growing up, the man who was like a father to him, who his mother was smitten with all those years ago...
“I’m waiting for an answer, Danny,” James said calmly. “Karen and your children are waiting for one, too. Lovely children. Have I told you that already?”
“Don’t hurt them,” Danny moaned, fighting the urge to faint.
“I won’t hurt them,” James said. “I promise.”
“Where are they?”
“I can’t tell you that right now, Danny. But rest assured they’re safe and they won’t be harmed. In fact, they’ll be released as soon as we work out our little deal.”
“What little deal?”
“Come over and we’ll talk, but do it quick. Jerry’s family is due back here in two hours.”
“I don’t understand,” Danny gasped.
Jerry’s voice came back on the line. He sounded scared. “Chrissy and Olivia are down at their mom’s packing up the last of their stuff,” he said. “They’ll be back in a few hours and he said if we don’t agree to whatever it is he wants, he’ll have them killed.” Jerry sounded on the verge of tears. “He says he has your family, too—"
“Where are they?” Danny was desperate to know that the kids were okay, that they weren’t hurt. “Have you seen them?”
“I haven’t seen them,” Jerry admitted. “But he says he has them somewhere. He’s also armed with a nine millimeter. Please, get over here, Danny. Do it now!”
“I’ll be right over,” Danny said.
There was a quick flurry of movement on the other end of the line and James Whitsett was back. “Don’t call your friend, Detective Jensen, Mr. Hernandez. That would be a big mistake. No police, either. As you probably know, some of my friends are ex-policemen and they still have connections with the current police force. The minute my associate hears that a car has been dispatched to this address, your friend gets a bullet in the head. Do
we have an understanding?”
“No police,” Danny said. “I swear. I’m leaving now, just don’t hurt Chris and Tina, please!”
“I won’t, Danny,” James said, that gritty familiar tone he used to love listening to as a child now tearing a spike through his heart. “I promise. You’ll have to trust me on this.”
“I’m on my way over now,” Danny said. He thumbed the disconnect button, checked to make sure he had his wallet and keys, then bolted out of the apartment and headed to his car.
The only thing he could think of on the way to Jerry’s was saving his children and hoping he could do this one thing that his heart and soul screamed at him to do.
Eighteen
TOM JENSEN COULD hardly believe the speed at which things were developing.
It was downright frightening.
After a quick shower and getting into a change of clothes, he called Gary Little again, who was on his way out the door. “I can’t talk long,” Gary said. “I think my phone’s bugged. Meet me at the Cantina.”
Tom instantly knew what he meant; dubbed “the Cantina”, Jose Rosarito’s Mexican Bar and Grill on Redondo Beach Boulevard was where the two met up sometimes to trade tips about the various investigations they were working on. Tom wondered what had transpired in the twenty minutes he was in the shower. He paused in his bedroom to check his available weapons; a department issued Colt .45 automatic and a Luger 9 millimeter pistol.
He stuck the nine in the right coat pocket of his black leather jacket and the Colt in his shoulder holster. He also strapped on an ankle holster and stuck a snub-nosed nine millimeter in it just to play it safe. He cursed himself briefly for not having a bullet-proof vest at the house, but then decided it wouldn’t be worth the drive to headquarters to try to sneak in to snag one since he’d be called in to Getz’s office and fired and have his weapons confiscated, so he decided against it. The last thing he packed was his badge, attached to the leather shield he carried in his front hip pocket.
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