by Tom Fowler
"And you'll learn it from him . . . how?"
"You heard him say he does everything on his computer."
"Yeah, so?"
I smiled. "Computers are often easier to learn from than people."
"You're going to hack him?"
"If I need to."
"Man," Rollins said with a chuckle, "the colonel was right about you. You are one unconventional cat."
"Colonel Stevens called me a cat?"
"I'm paraphrasing."
"I thought you might be," I said.
We sat outside Rosenberg’s Restaurant Supply. I wanted to discover more about his operation and where the money came from. Staking out the place didn’t have the best odds of helping with those, but it couldn’t hurt. Besides, I was at a loss for anything else to do. Rollins sat shotgun most of the time. Occasionally, he got out and walked around, always heading closer to Rosenberg’s. It looked like a normal operation when I visited, and nothing I saw while sitting outside made me change this impression.
Rollins walked to a coffee shop and fetched us some hot drinks. He wrinkled his nose at my usual vanilla latte but got me one anyway. His smelled so strongly of caramel I thought he dipped his hands in it. “Your macchiato is sickeningly sweet,” I said.
“Just how I like it,” he said.
I was getting a sugar rush just sitting in the Caprice. “I might have to go for a longer run tomorrow. You’ll have eight hundred calories of caramel to burn off.”
Rollins smiled and took another sip. “I’ll be OK.” I harbored no doubt. Rollins looked like a guy with a negative body fat percentage. He wasn’t muscle-bound, but anyone could see he kept himself in peak condition. His metabolism could probably burn off the caramel drink with an hour of vigorous blinking. I envied him.
A little while later, Jasper ambled out and got into a silver Mercedes sedan. “He’s one of Rosenberg’s big men,” I said.
“You gonna follow him?”
“Seems more exciting than sitting here watching birds congregate on the roofs.”
I pulled out after Jasper drove by. Rich had given me some pointers on following other cars before, but I learned a lot from movies and TV shows. Rollins didn’t criticize me, so I must have been doing something right. I kept two or three cars between Jasper and me the whole time. His silver Mercedes proved easy to play tag with.
“What if he’s picking up lunch?” Rollins said.
“Then we will have followed for nothing,” I said. “Though I guess learning where Rosenberg and his crew eat might be useful.”
“Sure. You wanna poison their food, you know who to give the powder to.” Rollins finished with a chuckle. I decided not to tell him about the time I “poisoned” Vinny Serrano’s food to make him suffer and coax a pointless confession.
“You never know; we might have to.” Rollins shook his head and smirked. “What’s funny?” I said. “Does poisoning someone’s food cost me extra?”
“Depends on how well you want it done.”
Jasper pulled into a deli. A lunch run. Great. I kept going along the side street and picked up Reisterstown Road again two blocks down. Before Jasper returned, we reclaimed our spot watching Rosenberg’s business. Jasper got out of his car and walked in carrying an unwieldy bag of food in his arms. He used an RFID badge to open a side door. I made a mental note of it. It was the only useful memo added to my mental notepad.
Later in the evening, I got a call on my cell phone from a number I didn’t recognize. Before I became a private investigator, it used to bother me. Now I’ve gotten used to it. I always hope for a breathy female voice to be on the other end of the call, and I am frequently disappointed. “Hello?”
“They got her,” said a male voice. He sounded more breathless than breathy. Disappointed again.
“Got whom? Who is this?”
“Zachary. They got her, man. They got my sister.” His voice cracked as he spoke. “I tried to stop them, but . . .”
“Slow down,” I said, sitting up fully in the chair. “Who took your sister?”
“Some guys. I don’t know them. They got her right in front of our house.”
Rosenberg was definitely involved. What if I’d pressed and looked harder and longer into his enterprise? What if I’d let Rollins bounce his accountant off the pavement a few times? None of those thoughts did Katherine Rodgers any good at the moment. I expelled them from my head. “Is your mom home?”
“No, I haven’t called her yet.”
Why the hell not? “OK, I’m on my way over there. Call your mom when we hang up. Don’t call the cops. Tell her not to, either. Make sure she understands.”
“I will. Oh, man, why couldn’t I stop them? Now they’ve got her and who knows what . . .” Zachary’s voice cracked and broke again as he dissolved into tears. I sympathized.
“Zach, listen to me. Your father’s gone. You’re the man now. Hold it together for your mother.” He sniffled on the other end of the connection. “Can you do it?”
“Yeah,” he said in a small voice, then cleared his throat. “Yeah, I can.” He sounded better in control.
“All right, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hung up and called Rollins.
“What’s happening?” he said.
“My client’s daughter just got kidnapped,” I said.
“Shit. Who called you?”
“Her little brother. He said he tried to stop them.”
“It’s getting real now. Your loan shark smells blood in the water.”
“Yeah, thanks for the update.”
“Just sayin’,” he said. “He couldn’t kill you, so he takes the girl. You keeping cops out of it?”
“As long as I have to. Where are you?”
“Half a block from your house.”
“Meet me at the Caprice,” I said.
Chapter 11
I called Rich as Rollins and I drove toward the Rodgers house. He answered in a tired voice. "Hello?"
"Rich, I might need your help with something," I said.
"Color me surprised. What's up?"
I let the slight pass. Katherine Rodgers was more important than my ego, at least for now. "The loan shark, Rosenberg, might be dabbling in kidnapping."
"What?" The weariness fled Rich’s voice. "What happened?"
"My client's son called me,” I said. “His sister got taken from in front of their house."
"Rosenberg did it?"
"Don't know yet, but who else is a good candidate?"
"Fair point,” said Rich. “Have you called the police yet?"
"Does calling you count?"
“What do you think?” I heard agitation creep into Rich’s tone. It happened often when we talked.
“I think having a bunch of cops sniffing around Rosenberg’s operation isn’t going to help Katherine Rodgers.”
Rich didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “You might be right. We don’t even know for sure he took her, though it seems likely. Look, I just worked a long shift, and now I’m off for two days. I’ll meet you at the Rodgers house.”
I was stunned, and it made me pause for a second. “All right . . . great.”
“But if we’re not hot on this girl’s trail quickly,” he said, “we’re going to get more people involved.”
I figured as much. “I guess we will.”
“We will. What’s their address again?”
I gave it to him.
By the time Rollins and I got there, Pauline was home and looked like she wanted to jump off a bridge. Zachary tried to comfort her, but there was none to be found. His face sported a couple of bruises—one would turn into a hell of a shiner—and a laceration he should probably get stitched. Haunted eyes reflected sadness and failure. He thought he let his sister down when he couldn’t stop Rosenberg’s toughs from taking her. I would need to talk to him, but I needed to talk to Pauline first.
As I sat beside her, she gaped at me and sobbed. Before I could say anything, she sagged against me, head
on my shoulder and arms wrapped loosely around me. I patted her back and let her cry. Rollins took stock inside, then went outside and searched some more. Pauline’s bawling slowed when he returned. I caught his eye, and he shook his head.
Pauline sat up and stared at Rollins. “Who’s he?” she said through her tears.
“His name is Rollins,” I said. “I hired him to help me after I got shot at a few days ago.”
Her acknowledgement was lost in a couple of final sobs, and I handed Pauline a box of tissues from the end table. She took one without comment and wiped her eyes, then blew her nose loudly enough to stop traffic two blocks over. As if on cue, I heard a car door slam out front. Rollins turned toward the sound and looked out the window. “Looks like a cop, whoever it is,” he said.
“My cousin,” I said, “and he is a cop. We can trust him.”
“Are you sure we should have the police here?” Pauline said, composing herself.
“We’re not going to ignore what happened,” I said. “But we’re not going to spook Rosenberg by having a SWAT team descend on him, either. At least, not yet.”
"I really don't want to involve the police.”
"I don't blame you. I try to involve them as little as possible."
Rollins let Rich in, and he looked around before sitting on the ottoman. "What's the situation?" he said.
"Katherine is missing," Pauline said. She burst into tears again.
"Any word from whoever took her?"
"Nothing," I said.
Rich looked at Zachary. "Could you identify the men?"
The kid stepped forward. "They wore ski masks, but I could see their eyes. They looked Asian."
"Asian?" Rich and I said in unison.
"Yeah. Definitely turned up at the corner. The right complexion to be Asian, too."
"I didn't see any Asians at Rosenberg's place," I said. Jasper’s face showed Asian ancestry, but not enough to count in Zachary’s scenario.
"Of course you went to his place," Rich said.
"Not now, Rich. He might have replaced the two guys I took out. Asian goons need jobs, too."
"We need eyes on Rosenberg," Rich said.
"You and I can stake it out tomorrow," I said. "We'll take your car. They might've noticed the Caprice."
"What about tonight?" Pauline said. Makeup had run down her face, giving her the effect of wearing a sinister mask. It made her voice rising to a shriek much more potent. "My daughter is missing right now! Who knows what those guys are doing to her?" She glared at all of us. Zachary tried to console her, but she shoved his arm away and stormed out of the room.
"The lady raises a point," Rollins said after everyone digested Pauline's rampage. "What about tonight? Staking out Rosenberg's place tomorrow is great, but we got ten hours or so until anyone shows up there. Lot of time."
"We'll do what we can," Rich said. He frowned. "Maybe we shouldn't keep this off the books. Maybe we should lean on Rosenberg."
"And if it gets Katherine killed?" I said.
Rich sighed.
"I know you don't like doing things my way," I went on, "but I think keeping this unofficial is in her best interests right now."
"What if we get a ransom demand?" Zachary said.
"Then we make it official," Rich said. "Even if he says no cops. They all say it."
"Until then, we're looking into this on our own," I said. "Let's start with where it happened. Zach, come outside with us."
He brightened a little. "Can I go on the stakeout with you guys?"
"No," we all said at once.
He frowned. We went outside.
Rich and Rollins pored over the sidewalk and the patch of grass between it and the curb. I left them to it. They had training in this I didn’t. They crouched, studied the grass, whispered back and forth, and eventually moved into the street, doing the whole thing again from a different angle. I tried a more direct approach. “Tell me what happened,” I said to Zachary, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the masters at work.
“We parked there,” he said, pointing to a gray Supra parked at the curb. “There was another car parked in front of the house. When we walked past it, these two guys got out and told Katherine to get in.” Zachary shook frustrated fists. “She told them to fuck off. So did I. They tried to grab her, and I tried to fight them.” He sighed. “I couldn’t. I’m on the wrestling team . . . I should be good at fighting off a couple of guys like them.”
“It’s not your fault,” I told him.
“If I could have protected her, she’d be in our house right now.”
“These guys got hired because teenaged brothers can’t take them down. They’re good at what they do.”
“I guess,” he said.
“They are,” I said. “It’s why assholes like Rosenberg hire them. Look, I know good wrestlers can overpower the average person. These guys are pros. They were probably bigger more experienced.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “You did your best.”
“Now you guys need to do your best,” he said.
“We will.”
“Can I come along?”
I declined. “Your mom needs you. If you’re gone, she’s all alone, and I don’t think it’s a good idea right now.”
Zachary offered a small smile. “You’re right. I have to be here for her.”
Rich and Rollins joined us. “Did you put your ears to the ground?” I said.
“Just tried to get a feel for what happened,” Rollins said.
“I got one, too, by talking to Zachary. Easier than counting broken blades of grass.”
Rollins continued like he didn’t hear me. “Looks like two guys walked up. There was a struggle. Two people hit the ground. Someone tried to make a break for it but only got a couple steps away. Then there are long strides toward the car.”
“I could have told you all that shit,” Zachary said.
“Sometimes, it’s good to find things out for yourself,” Rollins said.
“At least you took one of them down,” Rich said.
“Yeah,” Zachary said. He turned around and walked back into the house.
“Poor kid,” said Rich. “He thinks he could’ve stopped them.”
“Let’s make sure he’s not a poor kid because he has to bury his sister,” I said. “I would rather spare him the pain.” I knew all too well how it felt, and I was Zachary’s age when it happened.
“What’s the move, then?” Rich said.
“We need to know who these Asian guys are. Do they work for Rosenberg? Can you ask around discreetly and see what you get?”
Rich gave a rare gesture of agreement. “Discretion will be my middle name.”
“I’m going to look more into Rosenberg,” I said. “I’ve done a lot of digging already. Obviously I need to go deeper. I’ll try and track Katherine’s phone, too, but I’m sure it’ll be a dead-end.”
“What about me?” Rollins said.
“Keep an eye on Rosenberg. His house, his work, wherever. If he takes a shit, you should know what he ate for breakfast.”
“I’m on it.”
“We’ll all check in with each other in the morning, see where we stand,” I said. “How about seven? Then we can all keep an eye on Rosenberg for whatever turns up. Sound good?”
They both nodded. Rich left. I drove Rollins back to my house.
A busy night loomed ahead of us.
Katherine’s phone gave me nothing. The last location it reported to a cell tower was about a hundred feet from her front door. Her kidnappers must have destroyed the phone as they drove away. Smart. They’d done this before. Amateurs may have turned it off, which wasn’t enough. We were dealing with a pro team.
With the cell tower a dead end, I looked for some ties between Rosenberg and the Asian community. Trying to find this kind of information online was like trying to navigate a labyrinth with a dying flashlight. I could uncover a lot o
f things in cyberspace, but data like this eluded me. Goons of any persuasion, Asian or otherwise, didn’t exactly maintain message boards talking about good opportunities. I needed boots on the ground, so I got in the Caprice and took a drive.
On my way into town, I called Mouse, an informant who worked for the police and sometimes fed me miscellaneous data. “I need some information,” I said when he picked up
“Good thing I’m in the business,” he said in his squeaky voice. Despite being older than me, Mouse sounded like he got stuck in the middle of puberty. “What do you need?”
“Can we meet somewhere? I’m on my way into downtown.”
“Meet me at the Harbor. I’m tired of the bars.”
“Where? It’s a big area.”
“Outside of McCormick and Schmick’s,” he said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Me, too,” I said.
Eleven minutes later, I walked toward the Pratt Street Pavilion. I always found it surprising how Harborplace and its pavilions were older than me. They don’t look especially modern, and the selection of stores and restaurants seemed chosen by tossing darts at a list, but the area is the centerpiece of Baltimore’s tourism industry. If only the harbor itself could be cleaned up to resemble the pavilions. What possessed the ducks to stick around was a mystery to me. I guess the amount of available bread outweighed the used condoms, occasional corpses, and other detritus.
Mouse sat on the pavilion steps leading up to Tir Na Nog in front of McCormick and Schmick. Both restaurants were as dark and quiet as graveyards. As usual, Mouse wore all gray. His plain features, small stature, brown hair, and perpetually drab clothes earned him his trademark nick. Mouse worked for informant money and not much else. I didn’t even know if he kept a place to sleep every night.
“You’re late,” he said as I sat on the stairs beside him. Mouse scooted to the railing.
“You still expect me to be on time?” I said.
“I’m optimistic. What are you looking for?”
I told Mouse about Katherine Rodgers, giving him a little background on the case without telling him everything. “Now the girl is missing. We obviously think Rosenberg did it. Her brother said the guys who took his sister were Asian.”