Paying the Piper

by Simon Wood

  “And the Piper. You’re forgetting he had a piece in this too.”

  “Yeah, and we’re eliminating each other while this sicko sits back and watches it all unfold.”

  An answer was forming itself before them. Sheils was beginning to see it, even if Scott wasn’t.

  The coroner’s truck started up and drove toward the road. Everyone stopped to watch the Piper’s corpse leave for the morgue. It wasn’t out of reverence, or even contempt. It was more out of disbelief. Finally, the monster was dead.

  “I want to go back home,” Scott said.

  Sheils did too. The answer to this puzzle was back in San Francisco. He left Brannon to manage the scene after paramedics saw to him. The sheriff drove him and Scott back to the chopper.

  In the air, Sheils checked his messages. His cell had been ringing off the hook. He paged through his missed calls. His cell rang again. Guerra’s name appeared on the display, and he answered the call.

  “Sir, I’ve uncovered the ownership information you asked for.”

  In all this melee, he hadn’t reassigned half his people. He’d forgotten about Guerra and the paper chase he’d sent her on. “It’s not important now. Givens is dead. I need you elsewhere.”

  “No, you don’t. You need to hear this.”

  The strength of her reply stopped him in his tracks. “Excuse me?”

  “The out-of-state guy, Douglas Ritchie, who owns the South Van Ness property, also owns the factory in Vallejo and the sawmill in Oregon.”

  Guerra had his attention. “Go on.”

  “I checked this guy out. He doesn’t exist. It’s a front.”

  “For Givens?”

  “No. For Charles Rooker.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Rebecca met Friedkin two blocks from Rooker’s house. She pulled up behind him in a rental car and slipped into the front passenger seat alongside him. Her jaw dropped when she took in his condition and his cuffed hands resting on the steering wheel.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Never mind me. Did you bring what I asked?”

  She nodded. She produced the handcuff key and uncuffed him. While he examined the angry welts and wounds left behind by the cuffs, she held out a 9mm pistol. He took the Glock from her and chambered a round.

  “What’s going on, John? Why do you need a gun to see Charles Rooker?”

  Lies. Betrayal. Manipulation. Revenge. He had his pick.

  “Just stay here, okay? Give me fifteen minutes. If I don’t come out, call Sheils.”

  He opened the car door to get out, but she caught his arm. “John, don’t. Call Sheils now.”

  “I just need to confer with my client first.”

  “With that?” She pointed to the Glock.

  “Okay. Give me ten minutes,” he said and left to her protests.

  Alex’s Ford Fusion sat in front of the house. If he was inside, Rooker was inside too. Friedkin approached the house in clear view. He wanted them to see he was alone. He didn’t want to spook them.

  As he climbed stone steps to the front entrance, the door eased back. He stopped when he reached the threshold. Alex stood off to one side, a gun aimed at Friedkin’s chest.

  “I’m here to talk, Alex.”

  “I bet you are. Step one foot inside, and I’ll shoot.”

  “Let him in,” Rooker called from the stairs. A gun hung loose in his grasp. “Come in, John. Close the door after you.”

  Friedkin did as he was told.

  “Are you armed?” Rooker asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Slide it over to me,” Alex said.

  Again, Friedkin did as he was told. The pistol raced across the tiled floor. Alex stopped it with his foot and picked it up.

  “Come up to my study,” Rooker said.

  He followed Rooker into his study, a gun trained on his back. He’d been in this room many times. He’d given updates, made promises, and felt sorry for Rooker in this room, but not anymore. Pity was the last thing he felt.

  Rooker lowered his weapon and leaned against his mahogany writing desk. Alex blocked the doorway. He pointed Friedkin’s own gun at him.

  “Where are the kids?” Friedkin asked in a calm and level tone.

  “Not here.”

  “You used me.”

  “That’s your job. Cop for hire. Get used to it.”

  “I tried to help you, and you lied to me.”

  Rooker shrugged. “Bad things happen to good people.”

  “Like you. You were a good person, and a bad thing happened to you. The same way a bad thing happened to Nicholas.”

  Rooker jerked his pistol up. His hand trembled, but the wavering muzzle still stared Friedkin in the face. “Don’t you talk about my son. You have no concept of my pain.”

  “So because your family suffered a tragedy, it’s okay for you to inflict the same on others? Pay it forward, is that it?”

  “Why not?” Rooker tapped the gun. “It makes the pain go away.”

  Friedkin was wasting his time. Rooker was too eaten up with hate to see reason.

  He turned to Alex and took a step toward his friend.

  “Don’t take another step, John. Don’t make me shoot you.”

  Friedkin halted. “You’re going to have to shoot me anyway. Does it matter when?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Alex’s answer lacked conviction. Friedkin saw this as his way out. He needed to force a wedge between them and bust the two of them apart.

  “What happened to you?” he asked Alex. “You have a wife, a child, a job. You had a life, and you tossed it away for this?” He jabbed a finger at Rooker. “For his blood crusade?”

  Alex looked to Rooker for a response and got none. He was cornered, and like any cornered animal, he lashed out.

  “What life? I spent my days and nights working for you. I let my family slip away from me while I spent my time picking apart other people’s lives. I went days, sometimes weeks, without seeing my son awake. And for what? To help you build a business that made you rich. For that, my wife no longer wants to be around me, and my son looks at me like I’m a stranger.”

  Friedkin felt for his friend, but he couldn’t condone his actions. “You had choices, Alex. You took the easy way out. How much is he paying you?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “How much? How much to buy you? How cheap do you come?”

  The tendons in Alex’s neck popped out. His finger tightened around the trigger, but not tight enough to unleash a bullet.

  “One million.”

  “You undersold yourself.”

  Rooker laughed. “Can’t you see what he’s doing, Alex? He’s stalling while the FBI moves in.”

  Friedkin turned to Rooker. “You’re wrong.”

  A fist slammed Friedkin in the back. The pain dropped him to his knees. Alex shoved Friedkin onto his face and pinned him to the ground. He pressed the pistol to his skull. “Is he right?”

  “They’ve worked it all out. I came here to get both of you to see sense.”

  “Like taking a backseat to the FBI’s ineptitude?” Rooker said.

  “It’s done,” Friedkin said. “You’ve made your point. You’ve made others miserable. Now it’s over. Tell me where to find the kids, and this meeting never happened. I just want to help those boys.”

  Rooker put down his gun, picked up the remote from his desk, and switched on the flat-screen on the wall. A cable news network in mid-story appeared. A news helicopter was filming a ranch while an off-screen voice babbled excitedly. The caption at the bottom of the screen read, Is the Piper dead?

  Friedkin was shocked. Rooker’s crazy plan had worked. He’d brought down the Piper, but Sheils wasn’t any closer to finding Sammy and Peter.

  “You’re right about one thing,” Rooker said. “It is over. I’ve gotten what I wanted, and you no longer matter. Get him up.”

  Alex yanked Friedkin up by his collar. Friedkin pushed back off his heels, slamming into him an
d crashing down on top of him. Pain flared from his broken ribs, but he bit it back. The Glock bounced from Alex’s grasp. Friedkin rolled off Alex and grabbed the weapon. He snapped to a shooter’s stance, ready to shoot either man.

  Ready wasn’t good enough. Rooker grabbed his gun, aimed, and fired. Friedkin didn’t see him shoot. He just felt the bullet rip through his right shoulder. His strength exited with the bullet. He collapsed, the Glock slipping from his hand.

  Alex rushed over to snatch up Friedkin’s Glock.

  “Go,” Rooker told Alex.

  “What about you?”

  “I wired payment to your account. You don’t have to worry about me. Kill the twins, and you’re done.”

  “I’m sorry, John,” Alex said and ran for the door.

  “The kids,” Friedkin called out.

  Alex stopped at the doorway.

  “Let the kids go. Ignore him. You got your money, and he’s finished. Let them go.”

  Alex hesitated.

  “Go,” Rooker barked.

  Alex cast a final look Friedkin’s way before disappearing, his feet beating a tattoo on the stairs.

  Friedkin shifted on the ground, rolling on his side to get up. Rooker knocked him on his back with his foot. He stood over Friedkin and leveled his gun.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Scott was riding in the back of an FBI car with Sheils when news came of shots fired at Rooker’s home. The FBI had been waiting to pick them up when the helicopter touched down at the Hall of Justice. They hadn’t been on the road five minutes when Sheils’s cell rang. He asked for a three-block cordon around Rooker’s home and requested backup from SFPD, but they weren’t to approach the house without his say-so. Sheils ended his call with one last instruction—no lights or sirens.

  They parked one block from Rooker’s house. The FBI agents put on their vests. Sheils still had his on from the ranch. He handed a spare one to Scott.

  “Put this on,” he told him.

  After the carnage at Givens’s ranch, Scott expected to be locked in the car, and the surprise showed on his face.

  “I won’t tolerate a repeat of this morning,” Sheils said firmly. “I’ll need your help with Rooker, but you don’t venture a step inside without my say-so. Is that understood?”

  Scott nodded and pulled on the vest.

  “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “I won’t.”

  They moved as a unit toward Rooker’s house, perched on its corner lot. Sheils and his team approached with weapons drawn. The agents watched the doors and windows for signs of movement or a gun barrel. Neither appeared.

  Sheils broke the team up when they reached the house. He sent two pairs of agents to cover the exits. Scott went with Sheils and an agent named Rogers up to the front door. It stood open, as if inviting them in.

  Sheils ordered Rogers to keep Scott back. Rogers kept a firm grasp on Scott’s arm.

  With his weapon stretched out in front of him, Sheils peered through the open doorway. “FBI, Mr. Rooker,” he shouted.

  “Come in,” Rooker shouted back. “We’re upstairs.”

  Scott’s heart beat rabbit fast. Rooker had said we. Does he have Sammy and Peter up there? Reflexively, he pulled forward, but Rogers tightened his grip around his bicep.

  “Wait here until I give the go-ahead,” Sheils said and went inside.

  He crossed the hallway, climbed the stairs, and disappeared from Scott’s sight. Sheils announced himself from the top of stairs, then went silent. Scott strained to hear voices, but heard nothing.

  The silence was agonizing. It could mean Rooker had Sammy and Peter and all was well. Silence could also mean his boys were dead and Sheils didn’t know how to break the news. Scott wanted to burst in there, but he’d seen the carnage that action could cause. If Sammy and Peter were up there with Rooker, he wasn’t going to risk their lives. He’d play by the rules.

  Two minutes later, Sheils gave them the all clear.

  Rogers led the way, and Scott followed. Nervous energy coursed through him, but climbing the stairs to the second floor drained him. He was clinging to the banister by the time he reached the second-floor landing.

  Sheils held a shooter’s stance at the entrance to one of the rooms off to his right. His body blocked Scott’s view inside the room, and he feared the worst. They could be a trigger squeeze away from disaster.

  “Wait here,” Rogers said to Scott. He darted ahead to join Sheils.

  When Sheils had his backup, he ventured inside. “Scott, come in here. He wants to speak to you.”

  Scott rushed forward. The stink of cordite in the air chilled him. He pushed by the agent to enter the room.

  Friedkin lay slumped in a chair with a vicious bullet wound to his shoulder. Rooker stood behind with a gun pressed to the private investigator’s head. Sammy and Peter weren’t there.

  Sheils calmly said, “Scott, stand to my right. Remain behind me.”

  Scott understood the request and slipped in behind Sheils. Even though Scott wore a bulletproof vest, Sheils was using his own body to shield him. Rooker wouldn’t leave this house a free man, but he wasn’t finished. He still held Sammy and Peter’s lives in his hands, and he could still put a bullet in Scott if he was feeling vindictive.

  “Where are my boys?” Scott asked.

  “Not here.”

  Rooker sounded triumphant, but didn’t look it. Every time Scott had encountered the property tycoon, he’d looked resilient, in command, but not now. It looked as if it took all his energy to press the gun against Friedkin’s skull.

  “One of my ex-investigators has them,” Friedkin said. “Alex Hammond.”

  Rooker backhanded Friedkin with the pistol, snapping his head around. “Keep your mouth shut.”

  “Rooker,” Sheils barked, “take it easy.”

  “He needs to know his place,” Rooker said. “You all do.”

  “You’re in charge here,” Sheils said. “We understand that. There’s no need to hurt anyone else.”

  Rooker’s eyes sparkled at Sheils’s remark. “Isn’t there?”

  “Where are they?” Scott pleaded.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because I found the Piper. His name was Brian Givens.”

  “I know. I’ve seen the news.”

  “Then I’ve done all that you asked. I found Redfern, and I found the Piper.”

  “No, you haven’t done what I asked.” Rooker’s reply was bitter and harsh. “You were told to kill Redfern. You didn’t. You were told to find the Piper, and he’s dead.”

  “Does it matter? You wanted the Piper dead, didn’t you? Does it matter who killed him?”

  “Yes, it does matter,” Rooker barked. “I wanted to kill the Piper. That was my right as a father.”

  Silence filled the room. No one had anything to say. Revenge was a dirty business. In a way, Scott couldn’t blame Rooker for wanting payback.

  “Why now?” Scott asked. “Why wait eight years?”

  Rooker pointed at a photograph of himself and his wife knocked askew on his desk. “Alice made me promise. She believed in you, Sheils. She believed you would catch the Piper.”

  “She was right,” Sheils said.

  “If I hadn’t started this, you wouldn’t have lifted a finger. Without someone else’s kids’ lives on the line, Nicholas would have remained an unsolved case.”

  Sheils said nothing in his defense. It was true. Sammy and Peter’s kidnappings were the fuel that had ignited a new investigation.

  Rooker smiled. “How did it feel to put that animal down? Fantastic, I imagine.”

  “Empty. I wanted him alive. I wanted him to suffer in jail. Instead, he got off easy,” Sheils replied.

  Rooker frowned. He tightened his grip on Friedkin’s neck. “Give it time, Sheils. You’ll change your mind.”

  Scott looked at this man he’d harmed. The Piper had killed Rooker’s son, but he had helped tip the balance, sending Rooker into a downward spira
l of hate. He’d inspired the man to embark on a deadly game of revenge. The guilty had been punished, but the innocent too. Sammy and Peter didn’t deserve to be hurt. Still, he owed Rooker one thing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Rooker looked surprised by the apology.

  Scott came out from behind Sheils. Sheils darted forward to get back in front of him.

  “What are you doing, Scott?”

  “Apologizing. I should have, and I never did.”

  Scott’s move unnerved Rooker. He swung his gun away from Friedkin and aimed it at Scott and Sheils.

  “Take it easy, Rooker.”

  Scott held the balance of this moment and he halted. Sheils resumed his position as a human shield.

  “I’m sorry,” Scott repeated. “I hurt your family. I can’t undo what I did, but it’s over. The Piper and Redfern are dead, and I’ve broken enough laws to separate me from my family for years. Now it’s time to release Sammy and Peter. They aren’t part of this.”

  “Neither was Nicholas, but it didn’t save him.”

  “So Sammy and Peter have to die?”

  “Why not? It’s a fair trade. Your children for mine.”

  “Trades are open to substitution. What do I have to do to save my boys?”

  Sheils tensed. “That’s it. You’re out of here, Scott.”

  Scott pushed by Sheils. “C’mon, Charles. What do you want for Sammy and Peter? What can I give you to let them go?”

  Sheils holstered his gun and grabbed Scott. Scott fought him, but he easily restrained him, knotting his arms under Scott’s arms and around his neck. The agent at the door rushed in with his weapon aimed at Rooker to protect Scott and Sheils. With Sheils’s weapon holstered, they were sitting ducks if Rooker opened fire. Rooker didn’t need to shoot. He stopped the commotion with a single word.

  “Okay.”

  Sheils froze, with Scott in his grasp. “What?”

  “I’ll trade Sammy and Peter for Scott.”

  “Deal,” Scott said.

  “Not a chance in hell,” Sheils said.