Holiday Heat

by Janelle Denison

  Marisela didn’t answer. Detective Flores was no more of an idiot that she was. Any and all calls into the police department would be recorded. If Marisela heard Belinda’s voice, she might be able to tell if she’d been coerced to make the call—that is, if she’d really contacted the police at all.

  “I can’t release that information,” the detective answered.

  “Then my need to chit-chat with you is done.”

  Marisela moved to disconnect the call, but she heard Flores shout a desperate, “Wait!” and for some reason, she did.

  “You have ten seconds.”

  The woman on the other end of the phone sighed. “I understand that you have no reason to trust me. But I need to know what happened in that parking lot.”

  “Some guys blew up my car and took my sister,” she replied, “but now you’re telling me she went along willingly, so you have no reason to be in my business.”

  “A car bomb was still used,” Flores said. “Your best friend was seriously injured. Crimes were committed.”

  “It was my car. My best friend.”

  “So you’re the victim?”

  Marisela nearly hung up. “Not in this lifetime or any other, mujer. Mira, if you’re not going to help me find my sister, then you’re wasting my time and yours trying to track me down.”

  “This is a police matter,” the detective insisted. “If you find any information leading to the location of the person or persons who used an incendiary device on airport property—”

  “—trust me, detective, if I find the guys who took my sister, you’ll be one of the first to know.”

  “You mean when I get a call from the ME because he has a couple of John Does on his slab?”

  Marisela clicked the “end” button. Detective Flores would get no calls from the medical examiner.

  No one would ever find bodies.

  Frankie slid back into the room just as Marisela was tucking the burner phone into her back pocket.

  “No luck. Contact’s cell went to voicemail.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said, taking a last swallow from her soda, which was warm, but still bubbly enough to tickle her nose. “I’m going to track down this symbol in Belinda’s passport. You don’t have to come.”

  But to her surprise, Frankie grabbed his keys. “Where you go, I go, vidita. Unless you don’t need me?”

  She paused at the door and stared at the grooves in the wood, grappling with his question. She didn’t want to need anyone, but if she had to pick among the host of people she could rely on in a crisis, Frankie would always be at the top of her list.

  With a saucy look over her shoulder, she answered his question and seconds later, they were out the door.

  Under most circumstances, Marisela wouldn’t think of visiting Mr. Tanaka at three o’clock in the morning, even if she was crazy hungry for tempura. But as it was already Christmas Eve and she knew that, like the cooks at the bodega restaurant, Mr. Tanaka would be up early roasting ducks or boning fish or whatever Japanese cooks did in the early morning before one of the busiest days of the year. As she and Frankie pulled up in front of the sushi bar, she realized her hunch was on target. Though the neon sign in a shape of a head-on shrimp was dark, the lights in the back of the restaurant were on.

  “Drive around back,” she instructed.

  Frankie complied, pulling up next to the Dumpster that serviced the entire strip mall, all of which was owned by the Tanakas, who lived in a suite of apartments upstairs with his father, her mother and a boatload of kids.

  She was halfway out of the passenger seat when a tiny woman wielding a large knife rushed out of the back door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Marisela,” she said, walking into the beam of Frankie’s headlights.

  The woman frowned. She was four-foot, nine-inches of strength and determination, which had come in handy while she was raising seven kids ranging in age from six to twenty-four. With her husband, they ran a restaurant single-handedly and had interests in the adjacent businesses, including a nail salon, a restaurant supply house and a dry cleaner.

  When it came to stereotypes, they had them all covered—or so Mr. Tanaka had told her once over a bottle of sake he’d shared with her and Lia when they’d come in to celebrate Lia’s new job at Titan. The funniest part? Mr. Tanaka wasn’t even Asian. He was as Cuban as Marisela’s parents, but had been raised by a Japanese stepfather.

  “Marisela? What are you doing here?” she demanded. “No sushi at three a.m. unless you call first and pay double.”

  Marisela grinned. She had, indeed, taken advantage of this deal once when she’d woken up with a raging sashimi craving.

  “I know, I’m sorry, but you’re up and I need your help. It’s about my sister.”

  Frankie got out of the car, raising his hands the minute the older woman tilted her knife in his direction.

  “I don’t know him,” Mrs. Tanaka said.

  “This is Frankie Vega. He’s a…friend,” Marisela assured.

  She narrowed her almond-shaped eyes and jabbed the knife forward. “You look familiar. Come closer.”

  “Not until you put away that machete.”

  With a harrumph, she dropped the blade to her side. “Can’t be too careful. Lots of desperate people this time of year.”

  She marched back into her kitchen. Marisela followed as Frankie locked up the car. Inside, it was eerily quiet, though she could hear someone rooting around in the walk-in.

  “You need a big sushi order for a party?” she asked once they’d entered the deserted dining room.

  “No,” Marisela said, “I need you to look at—”

  Mrs. Tanaka cleared her throat. The woman had not raised over a half-dozen kids—three of whom were attending out-of-state colleges—without being a keen businesswoman.

  “—we’d like two big platters,” Frankie said, joining them. “Do you deliver?”

  “No delivery,” she said.

  “Fine,” he agreed. “Do I pay now or when I pick up?”

  Marisela could have kissed him. She had no cash on her, having lost her wallet in the explosion, something she hadn’t realized until this minute.

  Once they sorted out the order and payment, Marisela took out Belinda’s passport. “I’m not sure if you know what this is,” she started, but Mrs. Tanaka grabbed the document from her and shoved it under a lamp.

  “Of course I know. It’s a name. Riku.”

  “It’s Japanese?”

  “Sure,” she said, handing her back the papers. “Is that it?”

  “No, this Riku, is it a specific person?”

  She shook her head. “Popular name in Japan. Probably find it on those baby-name sites. I had an uncle named Riku. Came to the US long time ago. Everyone called him Rick. Is that all?”

  “Yes,” Marisela said, grabbing Frankie by the hand and dragging him toward the back exit. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. T. Tell Mr. Tanaka I said hello, okay.”

  “Tell him yourself on the way out,” she insisted grumpily, though she grinned when Marisela dashed back and pressed a quick kiss on her soft cheek.

  But Marisela didn’t have time to exchange greetings with Mr. Tanaka. Instead, she shouted good-bye to the refrigeration unit on her way out the door and was banging on the window of Frankie’s car by the time he caught up to her and disengaged the locks.

  “Hey,” he chastised, but she ignored him. She snatched the print out from the website and scanned the names below the faces that hadn’t been blocked out with a permanent marker.

  “Here!”

  “What?” he asked.

  She slid into the car and leaned over to show him. “Rick Suzuki.”

  “What is he, a bike?”

  “No, he’s Belinda’s baby daddy. Now that we have a name, we have a way to track him down.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Marisela stared at the photo. In the dim glow of Frankie’s map light, she studied the face, trying to spy anything that woul
d connect a nerdy, Asian software analyst to resort to kidnapping. She wasn’t even sure if he was the guy, but she’d run the photo by Lia. Maybe she remembered something now that she’d had a couple of hours to heal.

  But it was him. It had to be.

  “Rick’s a common name,” Frankie said.

  “There’s not another Rick in her department.”

  “But there could be a ton of Ricks in her company.”

  “And her company is in London,” Marisela said, knowing she couldn’t dismiss his point out of hand. Though the odds of Belinda looking outside her department for a lover were slim, they still existed. She had so little knowledge of her sister’s day-to-day activities. Hell, she wasn’t even sure what she did month-to-month. “We need find out how many Ricks from Pro-Tech have flown into the US?”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, “but I have an idea.”

  Just to be certain, she checked the clock app on her phone. If it was close to four o’clock in the morning in Florida, it was nine o’clock in London. But it was Christmas Eve, which meant there was a good chance the offices would be closed. Still, she had to give it a try.

  “Can you get in to the Pro-Tech website again?”

  Frankie leaned around to the back and grabbed his laptop. “Why?”

  “I need the Pro-Tech Travel department, if there is one.”

  Frankie didn’t ask any other questions, since her theory was easy to follow. If Rick Suzuki had not traveled from London to the United States, then he couldn’t be involved in the kidnapping. Trouble was, without massive hacking skills that would get them into highly guarded databases used by the airlines or immigration, using the computer without Titan’s resources was a no-go. However, they could still keep it simple and just make a few calls.

  “I’m piggy-backing off the Tanaka’s secure wireless signal,” he said. “I can hack it, but it would be faster if you knew their password.”

  She rattled off the phone number of their take-out line.

  He stared at her with surprise.

  “What? I don’t like to use my 4G on my phone, so Mr. T gave me the code.”

  Frankie arched a brow. “He just gave it to you?”

  “There might have been shots of sake involved, but beyond that, my lips are sealed.”

  Once online, Frankie navigated the Pro-Tech website until he had an internal number to the company’s travel department. Marisela took a few minutes to come up with a cover—then decided she had a perfect one.

  The voice that answered was sharp and chipper. “Pro-Tech Travel, Darlene speaking.”

  Marisela bit back her natural commentary about how anyone would sound so happy when working on Christmas Eve. She couldn’t be Marisela right now—she had to be Belinda.

  “This is Belinda Morales, employee number 35271, development division, 4th floor.”

  “Yes, Belinda” Darlene acknowledged, her upbeat voice dialing down to easy recognition. “How was your flight to Florida?”

  “Uneventful,” Marisela replied. “I need to know if Rick Suzuki used your department when he traveled to the United States.”

  “Rick Suzuki? Of course he did. We can use the corporate account for great discounts. Do you need to get in contact with him? It was my understanding that if anyone would have his private cell number, it would be you.”

  Marisela smiled. Confirmation. From this moment on, she was going to have a special place in her heart for gossipy travel agents.

  “I lost it,” she replied.

  “His number?”

  “My phone.”

  Under other circumstances, Marisela would have concocted an elaborate lie to explain how anyone could misplace a cell phone in an age when people considered them as instrumental to their daily activities as air, water and sex. But since she was playing Belinda, she kept it short and simple.

  “Do you need us to do a locate on your phone?”

  “You can do that?” she asked, her clipped tone slipping a bit. She cleared her throat. “I was under the impression that international usage of that application was unreliable.”

  Frankie raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed that she could rattle off so many big words without tripping over them. He had no way of knowing that she’d learned the lingo from a previous case where tracking a runaway embezzler had been slowed by him leaving the country.

  “It’s not entirely reliable and it takes some time,” Darlene said. “With everyone gone for the holiday, it might be hard to get someone to do it, but I can start the process.”

  Marisela wanted Darlene to start the process on Rick Suzuki’s phone since she knew where Belinda’s was—in a police evidence room.

  “No, thank you. I’ll purchase a new one after the holiday. But I could use Rick’s cell phone number, if you can give it to me without violating company policy. I don’t want to get you in—”

  “—it’s Christmas,” Darlene said, giggling cheerily. “Besides, I can’t stand in the way of true love at this time of year, can I?”

  Marisela resisted making vomiting sounds and instead remained silent while Darlene chit-chatted about the dreary London weather and how she hoped to someday come to Florida for her vacation at the same time as she tapped endlessly into her keyboard and finally rattled off the number, which Marisela repeated and Frankie transcribed.

  “Is that all then?” Darlene asked.

  Marisela wondered how to end the call. Would Belinda extend a traditional holiday greeting? Had the doctors and specialists her parents mortgaged their house for—twice—made enough break-throughs to ensure her sister expressed polite gratitude for help so easily offered?

  “Thank you,” she said succinctly. “And Merry Christmas.”

  She clicked the end button before Darlene had a chance to reply.

  “He’s the baby-daddy,” Marisela said. “Apparently, their relationship made it as far as the office gossip.”

  Frankie nodded. “Want to call him?”

  “And say what? Do you have my sister and if you do, give her back or else? Damn. If anyone was working at the office—even just Lia, we could probably use some software to see where the phone is or the time and location of the last call.”

  Frankie closed the laptop and threw it on the backseat before starting up the engine.

  “You have that software on your computer?” he asked.

  “On Lia’s,” she answered. “Mine has Solitaire and some game about pissed off birds that I haven’t played yet. I don’t know how to use it.”

  “Luckily for you, I do. Or I can figure it out.”

  He sped back toward her office and circled the building a few times. Once they’d confirmed the police had cleared out, Marisela allowed the light moment to ripple through her. She had a solid lead. For the first time since the kidnapping, she had information she could build off to track down her sister instead of guesses.

  In case Detective Flores decided to send her patrol officers back, Frankie parked behind the Puerto Rican restaurant around the corner, nearly in the precise spot where she’d left her Camaro to avoid Lia figuring out her secret. So much would have been different tonight if she wouldn’t have given in to Lia’s stubbornness and had refused to let her go with her to the airport. Lia wouldn’t be in the hospital, but since she provided an important clue in leading Marisela to Rick Suzuki, if she hadn’t been there, she might never have found a way to recover her sister.

  That is, if the papa-to-be had anything to do with the kidnapping. But if he didn’t, he still had some serious explaining to do.

  Frankie locked up the car and they were halfway down the dark alley that led to the back of the Titan office entrance when Marisela’s burner phone went off, followed seconds later by Frankie’s.

  They exchanged confused glances, then turned away and separately answered their calls.

  “Ms. Morales?”

  A second or two elapsed before she placed the voice. “Dr. McFuego?”r />
  “McClarren, but as far as nicknames go, I guess I can’t complain.”

  “Sorry,” she said, searching desperately in her overtaxed brain for his real name and coming up with nothing. “I had a head injury, remember?”

  “There’s nothing about you I’m likely to forget, Ms. Morales. Including you asking me to call you if I ran across any random gunshot wound victims in the ER.”

  She reached behind her and grabbed Frankie’s arm. Underneath his sleeve, his radial muscle was stretched tight.

  “You got one?” she asked.

  “I do indeed. Nine millimeter slug embedded in the subscapularis, exactly where you’d said it would be. I don’t suppose you own a nine millimeter weapon, do you?”

  “I may have purchased one or two over my life time,” she replied.

  “Any of them legal?”

  “Every last one.” Now. “What’s his name? What hospital is he at?”

  “He’s a John Doe,” the doctor answered. “Dropped off at the ER by a black SUV, which is exactly what I told the police. He lost a lot of blood, but he was transfused and sewn up and should make a complete recovery, if that eases your conscience.”

  “Why would I have a guilty conscience?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’ll figure it out after the police run ballistics and match the slug to a gun you own. That’s the pesky thing about owning legal weapons, Ms. Morales. They are traceable.”

  Marisela cursed Titan and their ridiculous rules that their operatives carry registered guns unless they are on a specific case that requires that they don’t. Marisela had seen the cops bag her piece at the crime scene right before Frankie insisted she play injured. It must have flown out of her hand in the explosion.

  “So I fired my weapon at men who’d just attacked my best friend and blew up my car. My only remorse is that I didn’t stop them from getting away.”

  Dr. McClarren paused, then said, “Don’t show up here to finish the job. I’ve reported the injury to the police. There are uniformed officers waiting to question him, standing right outside his door.”

  “Thanks for the recon,” she said.

  “It wasn’t recon. Damn it, I’m not helping you that way.”