by Tom Fowler
“And you think it’s odd.”
I nodded. “He’s got one partially Asian guy, but he doesn’t strike me as a goon. The others were either Jewish or Italian.”
“You want me to see what people are saying about Rosenberg and the Asians.”
“I knew you’d catch on.” I handed Mouse two pictures of Benjamin Franklin. “Three more for information I can use.”
Mouse pocketed the hundreds. “How soon do you need to know?”
“Every hour Katherine is missing makes things worse for her,” I said. “The sooner you know something, the better.”
“All right.” Mouse stood. “Pleasure doing business with you. You pay way better than the cops.”
“The perks of not being a public servant are many,” I said.
The money situation with Rosenberg still bothered me. His accountant wasn’t very helpful. I might need to find another bean-counter, but first I needed all of Rosenberg’s financial information. A closer look at data on hand would be enough to start. Who could I have look it over once I’d collected all of the books? I realized I knew a lot of people in very disreputable fields, but I didn’t really know any accountants.
Then I remembered the funeral home. The man who first tipped me off to the gunshots was a CPA according to his business card. I made a note to call him in the morning. I wrote actual memos at this point because I didn’t trust myself to remember mental notes on the menial amount of sleep I expected to get. In my college days, a two-liter of soda, a textbook, and a computer was enough to keep me up all night and straight on ‘til morning. Now I would never drink so much carbonated crap in one sitting, and I paid a heavier price for all-nighters. I must be the only person in the world who got old before turning twenty-nine, let alone thirty.
I did more digging into Rosenberg and loan sharks in general. Many supplemented their income with other illegal rackets. If Rosenberg did, I couldn’t find any evidence of it. On a lark, I went prowling around the BPD’s network to see if they discovered anything unsavory about Rosenberg. Only one arrest on the books for conspiracy to commit kidnapping, but the charges were dropped and nothing further happened with it. I figured a similar charge would show up on every good loan shark’s rap sheet.
Having found something on the BPD’s network, I next went poking around the BCPD’s. How did gentlemen in my profession get information from the police before networks and hacking? The BCPD had an identical complaint against Rosenberg about a year earlier than the BPD’s. Just like in the other one, the charges got dropped and nothing else transpired. I frowned. Two kidnapping complaints. Even though they didn’t get pursued, the police twice found enough to get Rosenberg arrested.
Was there fire behind this smoke, or was this just sine qua non to being a loan shark?
I looked at the clock. My bedtime long since vanished in the rearview mirror. We would need to start our stakeout tomorrow. The clock ticked for Katherine Rodgers. My eyelids grew heavier. I downloaded what I could find of the case files for Rosenberg’s two arrests and started reading them. At some point, they bored me until the ol’ lids got heavy enough I studied the insides of them for a while.
I awoke with a start. Sleeping in a chair, even a comfortable leather executive chair, is never the same as sleeping in a bed. My neck felt stiff and hurt when I moved it. My left arm hung useless and tingly from my shoulder. I collected myself for a minute as feeling returned. It was just before seven. Rich and Rollins should be checking in with me soon or waiting for me to check in with them. I picked up the reports dropped during my nap, went upstairs, and swished mouthwash. When I came back downstairs, my phone rang. It was Rich. “Find out anything?” I said.
““Not really. I asked a few people in a few different departments. They all have some feelers out but nothing else.”
“They didn’t know anything ?”
“The gang folks said there’s little if any Asian presence in street organizations. Blacks and Hispanics don’t like them or trust them enough, and their numbers are too small to start their own.”
“And no one has much on Rosenberg?”
“Right. Just some suspicions, nothing concrete.”
“And a kidnapping charge a few years ago,” I said. “Didn’t go anywhere.”
“Where did you see his record?” said Rich.
“Where do you think?”
Rich sighed. “Of course.”
“Don’t feel bad, Rich. The BCPD network has as little information as yours and probably worse security. If that’s possible.”
“Now I can sleep well when this is over. Any word from your bodyguard?”
“Not yet. Why don’t you come by the house, and we’ll meet him somewhere?”
“All right. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Bring some breakfast.”
“You get breakfast. You can afford a bodyguard . . . you can afford a box of donuts.”
I had a clever retort all ready to go, but Rich hung up. I decided to save it for the next time it might be useful. I went upstairs to brush my teeth and change into clean clothes. A shower would have to wait. I was picking out my duds for the day when Rollins called.
“You find out anything?” I said.
“Pretty quiet night,” Rollins said. “Rosenberg had a few of his cronies over. I followed one, but all he did was go home. Then I went back to Rosenberg’s house. Looked like he was asleep.”
“Rich didn’t find much, either.”
“What about you?”
I told Rollins about the two kidnapping arrests. “There’s a saying about smoke and fire,” he said.
“True. We need to find less smoke and more fire.”
“Let’s do it today, then. I’m getting a shower. I’ll come by your house in a half-hour.”
“Rich and I will be waiting,” I said.
After I got off the phone with Rollins, I went to Dunkin Donuts. I got a half-dozen donuts, three different breakfast sandwiches, a latte for myself, and a box of coffee for Rich and Rollins. When I got back, Rich sat in his blue Camaro. He walked up to the house behind me. “I really need some coffee,” he said. Red streaks floated in his eyes, complementing the dark circles beneath.
“I have cups and some thermii inside,” I said.
“Thermii?”
“It should be the plural of thermos.”
“I’m not sure Webster agrees,” Rich said.
I took out my keys and unlocked the door. “I’m trying to win Merriam over instead. She’s easier.”
Rich chuckled and followed me inside. I got down a coffee cup. No sooner did the cup hit the table than Rich opened the box of coffee and poured. “It’s not ambrosia,” I said.
“Closest thing we’ll find,” he said, then took a slug. Even though steam rose from the mug, the heat didn’t seem to bother Rich.
I took the egg white veggie sandwich out of the bag. “There are two sandwiches still in here, plus a six-pack of donuts.”
Rich raided the bag like it contained the fountain of youth. He took out one of the sandwiches and chomped about a quarter of it in one bite. I didn’t know which one he grabbed and as quickly as he ate it, I don’t think he did either.
“Hungry?” I said.
“Just a little.”
I heard a knock at the door and then Rollins announced himself. “Try not to eat all the donuts while I’m answering the door,” I said. I let Rollins in and came back to see Rich had devoured the rest of the breakfast sandwich. “You two might need to throw down for the rest of the food.”
“He can have the other sandwich,” Rich said. “The dunkers might lead to a scrum.”
“Take it outside, boys,” I said.
Rollins grabbed the sandwich and took a normal-sized bite of it. “We can take the donuts with us,” he said. “You have thermoses?”
“I have at least three thermii,” I said.
“Thermii?”
“Don’t ask,” said Rich.
Rollins
thought about it and shrugged. “The sooner we get to Rosenberg’s, the better. His business opens at eight.”
I looked at my watch. Seven twenty-five. “We’ll be there in time. I’ll get the coffee.”
“What about traffic?” Rollins said.
“We’ll have a police detective in the car,” I said. “I’ll drive on the shoulder as much as I have to.”
Rich rolled his eyes. “Tell me you won’t.”
“Only when necessary,” I said.
It wasn’t. I only passed on the right via the shoulder once, and even then, only for a few hundred yards. Rollins cracked a smile as I sped around a couple of people who forgot which pedal made their cars go forward. Rich’s expression suggested he’d gargled with lemon juice. Traffic on the Baltimore Beltway sucks in the morning no matter which direction you go. Heading toward Pikesville added gridlock on Reisterstown Road after exiting the Beltway.
Thanks to some professional-grade driving, we got to Rosenberg’s before eight. I brought the Caprice even though they might recognize it. If they decided to show us their recognition by opening fire, the Caprice would offer the most protection. Besides, I didn’t want to get the Audi scratched, shot, or otherwise maimed. I parked around where I had the last time we camped out. I hoped it looked like normal residential or business parking. To help with the illusion, we all sat as low in the seats as we could.
People started rolling into Rosenberg’s right at eight o’clock. Jasper and a couple of donkeys went in first. Rosenberg himself, accompanied by the stocky goon who chauffeured his car, walked in a few ticks after eight. People we estimated to be customers went in and out over the course of the morning. Rich and Rollins drank coffee and shared stories about their days in the Army. I long ago ran out of vanilla latte, so I turned to coffee to force my eyelids open. Most of the Army stories were boring to someone who never served. The others threatened to splash me with runaway machismo.
At about nine-thirty, Jasper and two goons—one of whom was Rosenberg’s chauffeur—ambled out and got into Jasper’s car. "I wonder where they're going?" I said.
"Doesn't matter," said Rollins. "Once they roll out, we can march in there and talk to the man a lot easier."
Jasper and the other guys pulled away. We waited three minutes for them to come back, then got out of the Caprice and walked toward the building. When we were inside, I saw a few customers milling about and picking up supplies. The path to the door at the rear was unobstructed, and we walked toward it. I kept an eye out for goons, as I'm sure Rich and Rollins did.
When we got there, we stopped. "I'll wait out here," Rich whispered.
"Why?" I said, keeping my voice to a whisper.
"I'm off duty. It's better this way. Don't worry. I'll barge in if you guys need help."
"We'll be fine," Rollins said. He drew his gun with one hand and tested the knob with the other. "Unlocked."
I took out my .45. No point in taking anything smaller to a potential firefight. Rich unholstered his gun and stood to the side. No one in the store noticed us yet. I signaled to Rollins, and he thrust the door open.
Rosenberg stood from behind his desk. A guard seated just inside the threshold stood, too. Rollins punched him in the mouth, and he fell backwards, moaning and covering his face. Another shot up and took a step toward me. I kicked him in the solar plexus, driving the breath from his lungs and causing him to slump forward, making it easier to kick him in the face. His head snapped back and thudded into the side wall before he sagged to the floor. He wasn't getting up anytime soon. I looked at Rollins pouncing on his foe and knocking him before he glared at Rosenberg and flashed a threatening smile. It conveyed menace and a general lack of interest in the viewer's well-being at the same time.
"What's the meaning of this?" Rosenberg said. He still stood, but his brows formed a deep frown. He looked between Rollins and me.
"We can start with your attempt on my life," I said.
"I don't know what—"
"Shut up," I broke in. "We're really here for Katherine Rodgers."
"Who?"
"The daughter of Stanley and Pauline Rodgers."
Recognition flashed in Rosenberg's eyes. "Don't know her," he said.
"I'm tired of this." I walked close and punched Rosenberg in his paunchy stomach. The air whooshing from him as my fist drove home proved a very satisfying sound. He staggered into his seat and coughed a few times. "Let's try again. Katherine Rodgers was kidnapped. We know you've been accused of kidnapping before. Where is she?"
Rosenberg shook his head as a few more coughs escaped. "I don't know," he managed to say.
I pulled my fist back again. He winced and hid behind his raised hands. "I don't know where she is," he said, some power returning to his voice.
"Her mother owes you money. You threaten me, then her. Then her daughter disappears. I stopped believing in coincidences a while ago."
“I don’t know where she is,” he said again.
“You saying you had nothing to do with kidnapping her?” Rollins said. He strode to Rosenberg and glared down.
“Yes,” Rosenberg said after looking away from Rollins.
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“We should go,” Rich said from outside the door.
Rollins slapped Rosenberg hard across the face. If I only heard it, I may have thought he shot the bastard. “We’re gonna find out you’re lying and come back for you,” he said. “Count on it.”
Rosenberg swallowed hard and didn’t say anything. Rollins and I left the room. We kept our guns ready under our jackets. “Jasper and the other guy are coming back,” Rich said. We went out the front and walked briskly around to the Caprice. Jasper and his co-goon had gone inside. They didn’t come out. I fired up the Caprice, turned it around, and stomped on the gas.
Chapter 12
“How’d you like to hire an accountant?” I said to Rich on the way back to Baltimore.
“I think I’m OK,” he said.
“Let me ask again. How would you like to meet Rosenberg’s accountant under the guise of hiring him while Rollins and I burgle his office and look for incriminating information?”
“How could I refuse?”
“You need me for a B and E?” Rollins said.
“No, I just need you to make sure no one Es behind me,” I said.
He chuckled. “You stretch my job description, but it’s cool. This is fun.”
We got back to my house. I gave Rich the number for Eliot Eisenberg’s business. He walked into the other room to make the call. I sat behind my desk and took a deep breath. We needed to keep moving. Katherine Rodgers might not have a lot of time, depending on who took her and what they planned to do with her. Even though we were all tired, we had to push past it and keep going. Rich walked back in a minute later. “We have a meeting set up for forty-five minutes,” he said.
“Where?” I said.
“Miss Shirley’s. I have no idea what we’re going to talk about, but I’ll keep him there for the duration of breakfast.”
“We should have enough time,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to dig some more. Rich, can you look into who worked the case and made the arrest? Knowing what he knew could help us.”
Rich nodded. “I’ll check with the county, too.”
“I’ll sit here and look pretty,” Rollins said, “unless you have something more productive in mind.”
I thought about it for a moment. “Yes. Use my laptop in the other room and research human trafficking. The sex trade in particular.”
“You think this girl is being trafficked?”
“I think we can’t ignore the possibility. Rosenberg said he didn’t grab her. Let’s assume he’s telling the truth. It means someone else did for their own reasons. If she is being trafficked, it makes what we do today even more important.”
“I’m on it,” Rollins said and walked out of the room.
We were all on our various projects.
Rich texted t
o let me know Eisenberg entered Miss Shirley's. I felt a brief pang of envy at not getting to eat there. Rollins and I were parked a block away from Eisenberg's building, waiting to hear the good word. The exterior door was open, but Eisenberg locked his inner office before he left. Rollins pulled the outer door shut. Our space shrank to the size of a typical elevator. "Keep an eye out," I whispered as I took out my special keyring.
"Where did you get the tools?" Rollins said.
"Hong Kong." I looked at the lock—a Schlage with some wear on it. This would be easy.
"How long were you over there?" Rollins said as I chose the appropriate tension wrench.
"Of my own volition? Three and a half years. Then I spent nineteen days under the watchful eye and loving care of the Chinese penal system."
"Wow. Must’ve been shitty."
"Yes, it was." I worked on the lock using the tension wrench and a slender steel rod.
“You speak Chinese?”
“Yes, but I didn’t let them know.”
“They torture you?” he said.
I didn’t answer. After a few seconds, Rollins nodded. I kept massaging the tumblers. Within another minute, I had it open. Rollins jumped in front of me, opened the door, and went in. One of these days, we might find a bomb, a lion, or at least a gunman behind a door when he did his bodyguard bit. Not today. We walked into Eliot Eisenberg’s messy office. Ledger books and other desk detritus threatened to assault us as we walked in.
“How we doing this?” Rollins said.
“He must keep secret books on Rosenberg,” I said. “Even if they’re cooked. We probably have forty minutes. Rich can only bullshit this guy for so long. We’ll try to be organized about it.”
Rollins looked around. “Hard to be organized in here.”
“He has a process. I think I recognize the animal, vegetable, mineral system at work.”