“I know this has to be impossibly hard for you, Drake.” Cliff Kingston wiped French fry grease off his mouth with a napkin. They’d graduated to using first names during the meal. “But I assure you that we do catch these types. They’re criminals who’ve had a bit of luck with convenience store jobs, they do a few successful drug deals, they start to think they’re pretty hot stuff. They have no clue that a bank robbery means they’re dealing with an elite unit within the local police department and that they now have to face the FBI. They will screw up. We will catch them.”
Drake sent him a level stare. “But will Charlie be all right when you do?”
The FBI man’s cell phone rang and he snatched it out of his pocket. “Right,” he said to the caller. He slapped some cash on the table. “Back to the squad room. We’re getting results.”
Dave Gonzales stood in the middle of the room, running a hand over the faint stubble on his head while uniformed officers gathered around him. Drake, Ron and Kingston joined them.
“Okay, let’s get to the new information,” Gonzales said. He pulled three sets of mug shots from a folder on the table and stuck them up on the bulletin board. “Joey Baca. First suspect. Jones? Anything on this guy?”
The veteran officer shook his head. “Don’t think so. We found him home, watching TV, his truck parked out front. Plus, Baca’s taller and heavier than the guy on the security tapes.”
Gonzales nodded. “Thought so. But we needed to check.” He turned toward Officer Bookman. “Anything on Calvin Painter?”
Drake looked at the photo Gonzales was indicating. It showed an emaciated Anglo man, a guy with the hollow look of a cocaine addict.
“Nasty guy,” Bookman reported. “But I don’t think he’s the one. Plus, his truck was up on blocks in the backyard. He claims it’s been that way for more than a year and I tend to believe it.”
“So, we’re down to Lonnie Stringer, the guy Sanchez and I went to check on. I’ve got a strong feeling he might be our perp. Sanchez, you want to fill them in?”
The younger officer shuffled nervously, unaccustomed to being in the limelight with his peers. He pulled out a small notebook and read from it.
“Detective Gonzales and I drove to the suspect’s last known address on Carlisle northeast. No vehicles were present outside the residence, and no lights were on inside. After knocking at the front door and announcing ourselves we circled the house but found no evidence of the truck in question.” He glanced back at Gonzales. “Conversation with the neighbor to the north revealed that Stringer was renting the residence but has not been seen there in at least a week. The woman verified that Mr. Stringer does still own the red Ford truck and that he was driving it when he was last seen leaving his home.”
Gonzales piped up. “So, Stringer’s red truck seems the most likely among the ones we got the DMV hits on. The other reason I like him for this is his record. Fits what we’ve been thinking. Gang activity as a teen, graduated to convenience stores, arrests for armed robbery, did time in Santa Fe. His physical size matches what we saw on the security tapes.
“I pulled DMV records for Lonnie Stringer before I called everyone in,” Gonzales continued. “His license photo is going out to all units in the city, and over the wires region-wide, already. Plus, I learned that he owns another vehicle, a white 1979 Pontiac. We’re watching for that one, too. It’s a good bet that he may have switched cars soon after the robbery. We’ve issued a BOLO for both vehicles. Plate numbers and full descriptions are in your packets.”
He passed printed sheets around the table. “While our guys on the streets are looking for the vehicles, I want all of us to spread out and start asking questions. Find out this guy’s haunts, his friends, his relatives. Who are the other two perps? And who are they turning to now, who’s hiding them?”
Drake stared at the photo of the thin man with greasy black hair combed straight back off his low forehead. Beard growth shadowed his face, but did nothing to conceal the hard jaw and the cruel mouth. Stringer looked like the kind of guy who would clean up well and work the charm on some people, but underneath had a mean streak. Drake felt his gut wrench at the thought of this guy anywhere near Charlie.
The detectives were milling about in small groups, discussing plans, slipping on their jackets, getting ready to follow Gonzales’s instructions. Ron stood near the door, probably wondering what he and Drake could do. The sitting around was killing them both.
Ron pulled out his phone and hit one of the speed-dial numbers, connecting right away with his girlfriend. Drake caught himself listening to their sweet-talk greeting. Victoria apparently asked about Charlie because Ron told her that the police didn’t know much yet, and cautioned her not to talk to anyone about it. They ended the call with more loving words, leaving Drake with an empty core of envy inside.
He glanced up at the windows. It was fully dark out now. No chance to use his aircraft to accomplish anything. He wanted to race out the door, to track this guy and his cohorts and wring somebody’s neck. Mostly, he wanted Charlie back, just to take her home and pamper her and hold her again.
Kingston approached and laid a hand on Drake’s shoulder. “Might as well go home, guy. There’s really nothing you can do here. Gonzales has already stuck his neck out, allowing you to be here at all. The Chief could cause him a lot of grief over that.”
Drake nodded but the words soared past him. He stood up and looked around the room as if he were seeing it for the first time. Everything felt surreal.
Ron stood near the door, patiently waiting for Drake to head that direction.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They left the squad room together and walked to the elevator. Ron seemed a little restless but he didn’t say a word in front of the two police detectives who were in the small enclosure with them. When the door opened at the parking garage level, the detectives went toward a plain city car.
“We gotta talk,” Ron murmured, nudging Drake’s arm. “Let’s go to the office.”
Drake unlocked his pickup and they got in. “So, tell me.”
“I hung near the door up there, paying attention to little scraps of conversation.”
“And?”
“Gonzales’s partner, Sanchez, mentioned a name that came up in their conversation with Stringer’s neighbor. Guy named Mole.”
Drake steered out of the city parking garage, made some turns, and headed down Central Avenue. Ron and Charlie’s office was only a few blocks away, in an old residential area near downtown.
“Mole is the street name of a guy named Leon Mohler. I’ve run up against him before. He’s a bad dude—gang ties, drugs, prostitution, time in the pen. I want to check my files at the office and see what I’ve got, maybe an address or something.” Ron stared out the side window, riding silently for a couple of blocks.
“Drake, he’s as bad or worse than Stringer. I hope they’re wrong about him being Stringer’s partner. He’s not the kind of guy I want around Charlie.”
Chapter 11
“Stop her!” String shouted.
It took a second for the command to register with the other two, but by then String had reached for his pistol—dyed hands and all—and aimed it directly at my head.
“Get away from the door.” His voice was measured and deadly.
I complied.
His arm came up, preparing to deliver a swift backhand to my head. I flinched, ready to duck, but he pulled back.
“Don’t ever try that again.” His voice went very quiet, ten times scarier than when he screamed at me. “You’re gonna stay beautiful only as long as it takes us to get that big-shot producer of yours to fork over the cash. But you cross me . . . I don’t give a damn if we deliver you to him in one piece or not.”
He didn’t have to remind me that he meant what he said. I believed him.
Mole grabbed up the duct tape and wrapped it around my wrists so fast that it hardly registered.
“Do her legs too,” String ordered. “An
d park her over there in the corner.”
Mole shoved me to the gray linoleum floor beside the dusty green wooden cupboards, the very corner with no possible exit. He straddled my feet and wrapped the silver tape around my jean-clad legs. Then he did my ankles. He aimed a discreet kick at my hip as he stood up, but luckily he didn’t connect with a lot of force. He laughed as he watched me squirm.
What would they do when they discovered I wasn’t really Cristina Cross? I had the sick feeling that my life wouldn’t be worth a hoot.
String reached for the cash on the table.
“Hey,” said Mole, “that dye’ll come off your hands and wreck the rest of it.”
String halted in mid-reach and muttered something about trying to find some water to wash the stuff off his hands. He stomped out the back door with a parting shot to Mole and Billy that they better not touch the money while he was gone.
The other two eyed the pile of unspoiled money, their wheels clearly turning, wondering whether the third bag would come out a healthy green or be bloodied by that nasty red dye. I found a small degree of amusement in watching their expressions, just because otherwise there’d not been a whole lot of fun in this entire, horrible day.
String stuck his head in at the open door. “Find me some kind of pan or a bucket or something.”
Billy began to look around the kitchen, coming up with a saucepan from one of the lower cabinets next to me. He carried it to the door where String waited impatiently.
“Thought I remembered my grandma having a rain barrel out here,” he said. “Looks pretty full.” He took the pan and came back a minute later, sloshing water on the floor.
“Domino, look in the bathroom and get me some more towels.”
Billy hopped to, doing every little thing String ordered.
“Okay, I’ll have this stuff off me in a second.” He scrubbed at his hands but the red substance only seemed to spread. “Dammit. Where’s some soap?”
Billy buzzed around some more, coming up with an old bar of something from the bathroom. It lathered up nice and pink on String’s hands but the stain wasn’t leaving. Eventually, he gave up with the washing action. He dried his hands and arms on a light-colored rag and not too much pink came off.
“I guess I can touch stuff now,” he said. “Who wants to open the last bag?”
The others looked at him like he was crazy. I had a hard time not grinning.
“Just do it real careful,” Mole suggested. “Maybe you can get the money out without that pack-thing busting.”
“Me? Do I look like the only one here?”
“You the only one here with red all over you. Might as well keep the rest of us clean.”
String send him a murderous look, but he reached for the third bag anyway. I rooted for the bag and sure enough, red goo exploded all over String’s hands again. He let out a flotilla of words that would have made the sixth fleet proud.
I hid my face against my arms so they wouldn’t catch me laughing.
He picked up the two spoiled bags and flung them into another room, still swearing like a madman. After another round with the soap and water and rags, everything from the biceps down was pretty well still crimson, but at least it wasn’t rubbing off on everything he touched.
“I need a damn drink,” he said, flopping into one of the chairs at the table.
Billy piped up. “I think your grandmother must have been a teetotaler. I pretty well went through the stuff in here and didn’t find any booze at all.”
String thought about it but didn’t seem to come up with an answer.
“Let’s count this. At least with some money, tomorrow we can get us some supplies.”
There were murmurs of assent all around and the other two took seats at the table too. I watched from my corner of the floor, catching maybe half the action. Mole apparently didn’t want to trust the bank’s count on the wrapped packets of bills and he immediately pulled off the little paper bands. That created a good-sized pile of loose bills, in all denominations, and I seriously thought the men would come to blows a couple of times as they argued over the count. I didn’t mention that I’m an accountant and pretty good with numbers. It was more fun to watch them muddle through it.
I lost interest a couple hours into the process so I spent my time figuring out how to get myself out of this mess. In retrospect, I might have been better off to make a run for it when I had my hand on the doorknob. It’s hard to get an accurate shot with a pistol at a moving target so the odds of String actually hitting me were slim. Unfortunately, the other two men had been very close by and probably would have tackled me within ten feet of the back door. So, scratch that.
But if I ever got another chance, say, one guy guarding me—gun or no gun—I’d better think seriously about doing it.
The main thing that weighed on my mind right now—well, it was hard to narrow my zipping thoughts down to just one thing—was what would happen when they made their ransom demand of Cristina Cross’s producer. Either Cross or the producer would react with puzzlement or an outright denial. Cross would step out in front of the cameras with her pretty face intact and say, “What kidnapping? I’m obviously alive and well and working on my new movie,” at which point she’d launch into a live version of her new movie’s trailer and I’d be toast.
Raised voices interrupted my thoughts. “This stash stinks. You call this a share? This job, it’s turning into a gyp.”
String’s deadly voice stopped Mole’s whining. “Enough, already! We got three stacks here. You take yours and be happy with it, or I’ll give you a real reason to gripe.”
Since he was waving the pistol around again, I had the feeling that the complainers would be silenced one way or another. There were some grumbles around the table but the overall tone was of acquiescence. I could see Billy stacking his bills, tamping them into neat little packets. Mole opted for the bulk cash approach, coming up with a pillowcase from another room and, after being sent to fetch more for the others, began jamming the money inside.
A noise grabbed my attention—the sound of stealthy footsteps on the back porch. Billy happened to be facing me and when he saw my riveted attention he froze. String and Mole snatched up their guns, spun and aimed.
The doorknob twisted and the door swung slowly open.
A young guy—I’d guess late teens—stood frozen in the doorway. His jeans and T-shirt were rumpled, his knees and brown leather boots crusted with dirt. It looked like he’d crawled hands-and-knees to get here. He had blond hair in a sort of grunge version of a Beatles cut and his narrow face sported a wispy Fu Manchu goatee.
He fixed pale blue eyes on the three men and the cash on the table. “Well, ain’t this a cozy little scene.”
Chapter 12
“Kid.” String lowered his pistol slowly, and Mole followed suit. “Where’d you come from?”
“Thought I’d be in Texas, still sitting there in that motel, waitin’ for y’all?”
Mole’s gaze flicked over to String, silently asking permission to blow away the newcomer. Billy watched the leader’s face, stayed alert, looked ready to duck.
“I found Melinda and Sissy,” the young guy said.
String gave that a moment’s thought. “Any cops around?”
“Nope.” To his credit, the kid kept his composure. He stared at the money on the table. “Looks like you got it divided up three ways. Where’s my share?”
This was the moment where I half expected String to simply raise his gun and do away with the problem. Oddly, he began to dissemble. “We was just starting to count it.”
Mole gave him an incredulous look.
Billy shifted from one foot to the other.
It hit me. String couldn’t be sure that the young guy hadn’t called the police after he left Sissy’s place, and now he was mentally scrambling to remember if he’d left any identifying clues behind. He thought of it about the same time I did—the truck.
“What’d you drive—coming here?�
�
“Pontiac.”
“I never heard it.”
The one he called Kid chuckled. “Yeah, old rattletrap don’t exactly come up quiet, does she?”
That was the moment he happened to glance down and spot me, taped up and huddling on the floor.
“Who the hell is that?”
“That, Kid, is our fortune.” String clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “We got us a hostage that happens to be worth a bundle.”
Kid eyed me suspiciously.
“She’s a movie star. Melinda told us. And in the morning we’re hitting up her producer for enough money that we won’t care that the stupid bank job didn’t give us much.”
Yeah, if the producer’s account actually had any money in it. But checking up on one production company’s finances was what had gotten me into this mess in the first place.
I could see the young guy trying to process all this. I couldn’t figure out if he was sharper than he looked or if he truly was gullible enough to go along with the plan. He sent one more skeptical look my way before turning his attention back to the money. Evidently the proverbial bird in the hand and all.
“I want my share, String. Sissy woulda had your neck if you cut me out.”
I watched String carefully. Something in him folded. Weird relationship. He’d shot Sissy without a second thought, but now he would listen to this guy at the mere mention of her name . . . I puzzled over it as they shook the money out of the pillowcases and started the count all over again. Eventually I leaned against the cabinets and dozed.
Cold seeped up through the floor, and I woke up stiff and aching. The house was quiet. Pale daylight filtered down from the kitchen’s only window. One man sat at the table now. Billy.
I must have groaned as I shifted position because he was staring at me. The pistol lay on the table within easy reach of his right hand. He made no move to touch it.
Stardom Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #12 Page 7