Natalie's Dilemma: a Frank Renzi crime thriller (Frank Renzi novels Book 7)

by Susan Fleet

  She had texted a short reply: Complications here. Text you later. Orazio had made good on his threat. A grim-faced thug had arrived and sat on a padded folding chair beside the foyer to guard the front door. Later, another one had taken his place.

  When she entered the kitchen, a young woman with short dark hair stood at the counter making a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Hi,” she said. “I'm Laura, Bianca's nanny, and I've got a question.”

  Smiling at her, the woman said, “Nice to meet you. I'm Annmarie. What do you need?”

  “I want to wash a few clothes. Is there a laundry room?”

  “Yes, in the garage. After I get the coffee going I'll show you.”

  “You must get here early to make breakfast. Homemade muffins and waffles, scrambled eggs and bacon. Everything is delicious.”

  “Hey, it's a job, you know? It pays good and I'm done at three.” Annmarie poured a carafe of water into the coffeemaker and turned it on. Moving to the right-hand end of the kitchen counter, she opened the door that faced it. “The laundry room is out here.”

  Natalie followed her into the garage, inhaling the odor of gasoline and grass clippings. Both bays were vacant. The guards parked in the driveway. When she and Bianca came down for breakfast, the hulking guard who had arrived last night was gone, replaced by another one, smaller but no less threatening. If she was going to sneak out to meet Pak Lam's contact, it wouldn't be through the front door.

  Annmarie walked past two green trash bins, opened a door and flipped a switch. Fluorescent lights illuminated a small windowless room. Two washers and two dryers lined the back wall. Above them, a shelf held jumbo-sized containers of liquid detergent and smaller jugs of fabric softener. Annmarie put her hand on a top-loading machine. “This is the big washer. We use it for sheets and towels. The other one is smaller. Much better for clothes.”

  “Perfect,” she said. But washing clothes wasn't her main goal. “I don't put all my clothes in the dryer. Is there something I could use to hang a few things in my room?”

  Annmarie laughed. “I hear you on that one. Put your best top in the dryer, it comes out fit for a ten-year-old, and bras? Forget it. The elastic is shot in two weeks.” She opened a cabinet and took out a package of white plastic clothesline. “You can use this. Wait.” She turned and took out a package of plastic clothespins. “You'll need these, too.”

  “Thank you so much. You're a lifesaver.” In more ways than one.

  “No problem. After I put out the fresh coffee, I'm going to Walgreen's. Need anything?”

  She wanted to kiss her. “Could you get me a manicure set with a metal nail file? And a plastic wedge to keep the bathroom door open?”

  Or the bedroom door shut, to keep Orazio out.

  “No problem,” Annmarie said. “You can pay me when I get back.”

  “What are you doing in here?” demanded a raspy male voice.

  Her heart jolted. It wasn't Orazio or Tommy. She knew their voices. When she turned, the guard stood in the doorway, frowning at her. He was not a large man, but his pale blue eyes were colder than an Arctic iceberg.

  Annmarie flashed a saucy smile. “Geez, Nicky, give us a break. We're just talking girl talk. I made a fresh pot of coffee. Want some?”

  Natalie said nothing, her heart beating her chest so hard she could almost hear it.

  Ignoring Annmarie, Nicky glowered at her. “Makes me nervous, you disappear like that. Mr. Antonetti don't want you going nowhere.”

  “She's not going anywhere,” Annmarie said. “I'm showing her how to run the washer.”

  Nicky silently glared at her for several seconds, then turned and went back in the kitchen.

  “What's up with these guys?” Annmarie said. “Gotta keep you on a leash like you're their pet poodle or something?”

  Natalie shrugged. “Insecure people will do you in every time.”

  Annmarie laughed. “You got that right. Speaking of which, did this guy Tomasso ever put a move on you? Whenever I'm around him, he stands too close, you know? Like he wants to jump me.”

  She hesitated, then said, “That's why I want the metal nail file.”

  Annmarie's eyes widened. Then she threw back her head and laughed, her eyes full of mischief. “Good idea. Maybe I'll get one for myself.”

  She laughed too. But it wasn't Tomasso she was worried about.

  CHAPTER 24

  9:10 AM

  Focused like a laser beam, Frank stared through the windshield of his Dodge Charger. For nine days King Rock had eluded him. Now, on this bright sunny morning, he was going to get him. No telling where he'd been hiding, but Ella Hughes had seen him at Iberville an hour ago.

  He'd already gone past the intersection of Basin and Lafitte where the B-n-L gang sold drugs. It was warm for December, shirtsleeve weather, but no bangers in baggy pants and hoodies lurked on the corner, no strung-out junkies looking to buy drugs this early on a Sunday.

  Now he was three blocks away from the B-n-L dealers, parked left wheels to the curb on a narrow one-way street. The B-n-L crash pad was ahead of him, mid-block on the other side of the road, a first floor apartment in a red-brick row-house where gang members screwed girls they didn't want their steady gal-pals knowing about. The street was deserted, the sidewalk lined with trees, their skeletal branches devoid of leaves. Now and then a chirping sparrow landed on one, then flew off.

  Assorted cars lined both sides of the street, most of them unwashed older models, but thirty yards away on the opposite side, headed away from him, was a shiny black Mercedes SUV. Waxed and polished with dark tinted windows and slick hubcaps, it seemed out of place. He didn't know if it was the SUV David had seen speeding away from Iberville after the murder, but he hoped it was.

  No lights visible in the crash pad. The shade on the window beside the front door was drawn, like most of the windows along the street, people sleeping in after a night of partying probably. Only one car had passed him since he had arrived, no church-goers in this neighborhood apparently.

  He flipped down the visor to deflect the glare of the sun and drank some bottled water. Kelly was probably eating breakfast and reading the newspaper. Waiting for a phone call from him. It had taken all his powers of persuasion to convince her not to come to Iberville with him.

  The door of the crash pad opened. His heart sped up, rat-a-tat-tatting inside his chest like a snare drum roll. Who would come out the door? King Rock, he hoped. He had no interest in some low-level banger.

  And his wish came true. King Rock appeared. But he had a girl with him, his new girlfriend, Frank assumed. Bad news. He was certain King Rock was armed and he didn't want to get into a shootout that involved an innocent bystander. Wearing platform shoes, the girl pranced down the cement steps in her white hot-pants and red halter top like she didn't have a care in the world, big smile on her face, grooming her Afro-styled hair. She was curvy but petite, looked about twelve though she was probably fifteen at least. King Rock knew enough not to be banging jail-bait.

  The gang leader had on designer jeans with silver studs along the seams and a loose jacket over a white shirt open at the throat. But no shades to complete the rap-star look. Tense and wary with no muscle to protect him, he wanted 20-20 vision, eyeballing both sides of the street.

  Frank slid lower in the seat, tugged the brim of his Saints cap lower and kept his eyes on the romantic duo. The girl stopped on the sidewalk, said something and laughed, gazing up at her man. King Rock didn't crack a smile, all business now, took her hand and led her down the sidewalk to the shiny black SUV with the tinted windows parked just beyond a fire hydrant.

  Now that they were only thirty yards away he could see her better, crimson lipstick, thick mascara and sparkly eye-shadow, her fingernails painted a gaudy shade of purple.

  King Rock opened the door and the girl climbed into the passenger seat. Frank heard the door slam and breathed a sigh of relief. Get the girl out of the way, he could take down King Rock without having to worry abou
t a hostage situation or stray bullets hitting the girl.

  He eased open his door, in a zone of concentration now, adrenaline pumping, heart pounding, aware of the bright blue sky, the chirping of birds, the glare of the sunlight, and most of all, the hands of his target.

  He watched King Rock circle the hood of the SUV. The instant he reached the driver's door, Frank pushed open his door, got out and stood in the V of the open car door. Gripping the SIG in both hands, he drew a bead on the scumbag.

  “Police!” he yelled. “Stay where you are and put your hands on your head!”

  Time seemed to stop, each movement etched in tiny increments like a freeze frame.

  King Rock's head jerked up. His hand went inside his jacket. Came out holding a gun. It was huge, dull-black and deadly, looked like a Desert Eagle .50 caliber or a .357 maybe. Either way, it was a killer. One slug would put anyone down.

  King Rock didn't look like half of a romantic duo now. He looked like a stone-cold killer, gripping his weapon, his finger on the trigger.

  Bam, bam, bam. Three shots in quick succession, the reports reverberating off the row-houses along the street. Spent brass casings spewed onto the pavement, clinking in the silence.

  Frank shut the car door and crouched beside the left front tire. “Police! Drop the gun!”

  Bam. A slug hit the grill of his Dodge Charger with a dull thunk.

  He scrambled forward to the rusted-out orange Chevy ahead of him. “Put the gun down or I'll shoot!”

  A barrage of shots came at him. One, two, three. Seven rounds gone, but how many were left? Most Desert Eagles had 9-round magazines, plus one in the chamber.

  He crept between the front bumper of the Chevy and the back bumper of the Jeep 4x4 ahead of it. An eerie silence settled over the street. No shots, no voices, no peeps from the sparrows.

  His chest felt tight and his shirt clung to his back, clammy with sweat. He peeked around the bumper. His heart slammed his chest.

  King Rock was twenty feet away, walking toward him, his eyes glittery with rage. Like a marksman at a shooting range, he held the killer gun in both hands, pointed in his direction.

  When facing an armed suspect, police are trained to aim for the center of mass and shoot to kill. But he didn't want to kill the bastard. One shot and King Rock's life would be over. That would be too easy. He wanted the bastard to stand trial for his evil deed, killing the mother of his son while the boy was watching.

  Frank took careful aim, squeezed the trigger and the SIG kicked in his hands.

  King Rock spun around, clutching his leg with one hand. But he held onto the gun.

  “Motherfucker!” Bam, bam. Nine rounds gone.

  He ran forward to the next car, crouched beside the hood and took a quick peek. King Rock was ten feet away, sprawled on the pavement, propped up on one elbow.

  “Give it up, Rufus. Drop the gun!” Damned if he'd use the asshole's street name. Kelly was right. Rufus Barrett was no king. He was a killer without a conscience.

  “Fuck you, asshole!”

  Bam. Only one shot this time. Was it his last?

  Aware of how lucky he was, Frank became aware of sounds, windows opening and distant voices. But no sirens. He'd been in such a hurry to find King Rock he hadn't put on his Kevlar vest. He should have called for backup. Too late now.

  He eased around the car, playing Russian Roulette now. Holding the Desert Eagle in his right hand, King Rock aimed it at him, his lips drawn back in a snarl. “Come on, motherfucker. Make my day.”

  Maybe the gun was empty. And maybe it wasn't.

  Frank took careful aim and shot him in the right shoulder. If Kelly had been here, she'd have shot him in the heart. But he wanted to take the bastard alive. Then every gangbanger in town would know what a coward he was, shooting an unarmed woman, the mother of his son.

  Screaming obscenities, King Rock dropped the gun.

  Ignoring the epithets, he walked closer and kicked the Desert Eagle away. It skittered across the pavement, hit the tire of a blue Honda and stopped. King Rock's thigh was pumping blood through a ragged hole in his fancy jeans. More blood seeped through another hole in his jacket.

  A male voice yelled, “What's goin' on out there?”

  “Police,” Frank shouted. “Stay inside and stay safe.”

  “Motherfucker!” screamed a voice. “Why did you shoot him? He didn't do nothing to you.”

  His heart jolted. Jesus, he'd forgotten about the girl! She wasn't in the SUV, she was standing behind it, tears and mascara running down her cheeks. She held a Glock 9mm in her hand, her purple fingernails a stark contrast to the black Glock. One of those fingers was on the trigger.

  His heart slammed his chest. Jesus, how could she miss? She was five feet away. Dry-mouthed, he gathered some spit and said, “Put the gun down. I'm not going to hurt you.”

  “Shoot the motherfucker!” King Rock screamed.

  He saw the muzzle flash before he heard the shot.

  Fortunately, the girl was no sharpshooter. She was holding the Glock in one hand. The kick jerked her arm and the shot went wild.

  Cursing his stupidity, he gripped his SIG. He should have worn the vest. Should have called for backup. Off in the distance he heard sirens. A squad car, he hoped. Would they get here in time? He didn't want to kill the girl. But if she shot at him again, he might not be so lucky.

  _____

  9:45 AM

  Natalie raised the Venetian blinds on the front window, and sunlight spilled onto the floor, brightening the room. Across the street, a well-dressed couple and two small children were getting into their car. Unlike her, they were free to come and go as they pleased. She was trapped in a house with two ruthless mobsters and men with hard eyes guarding the door. She had to get out of here, but how?

  Turning away from the window, she watched Bianca, kneeling on the floor beside the table in front of the television set, coloring Rudolph's nose. With a red crayon, not a black one. A minute ago she had sung “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” to her in English. Bianca had smiled and said in English, “I love that song!”

  Now, waving her closer, Bianca pointed to Rudolph's nose and said proudly, “Red.”

  “Yes. A red nose.” She smiled and touched her nose.

  Bianca laughed and touched her nose too. “Red nose.”

  She pointed to Rudolph's flanks, took a brown crayon out of the box and said, “Brown.”

  “No.” Bianca took out a blue crayon. “I like this one better.”

  “Use blue then. Rudolph will look beautiful.” She wondered how many English words Bianca understood. Colors were harmless enough, but others might not be. She wanted to talk to Pak Lam and formulate an escape plan, but not in front of Bianca.

  She sat on one of the easy chairs, took the iPhone out of her purse and composed a text.

  New plan is good, but guard is posted at the door. She hit send.

  “What are you doing?” Bianca said in Italian, pointing at the iPhone.

  “Sending a note to my friend.”

  “That man at the store where I ate my ice cream?”

  The words chilled her. Bianca was far too observant. To distract her, she said, “Let's go down and see if the wash is done.” And find out if the guard who'd yelled at her was still here.

  Bianca smiled. “Maybe that nice lady will be there.”

  She smiled, too. Annmarie was a very nice lady indeed. A half hour ago, Natalie had stuffed their dirty clothes into a pillowcase and took Bianca downstairs to the kitchen. Annmarie gave her the items she'd asked her to buy, Then she had treated Bianca to an orange Popsicle.

  “Annmarie,” she said. “Maybe she's still in the kitchen.”

  Bianca rushed to the door and opened it. She put the iPhone in her purse and followed.

  When they got downstairs, Nicky, the guard with the icy blue eyes, was sitting on a folding chair, sipping from a mug of coffee. The back of his chair was against the wall beside the foyer, perfectly positioned
to allow Nicky to watch the front door and the stairs.

  She felt his eyes on her as she and Bianca went down the hall to the kitchen. If she was careful, the clothesline Annmarie had given her might get her out of the house to meet Pak Lam's contact tonight.

  But what if it didn't? And that was only the first step. When she left for good, it would be at night. She didn't want to leave Bianca, but if she took the girl with her, they couldn't climb out the second-floor window. The only option would be to go through the front door or the garage.

  Just thinking about this made her palms dampen with sweat.

  First they would have to tiptoe past Orazio's room to the staircase. But the guard at the foot of the stairs would see them. Could she disable him with one of her TKD moves before he warned Orazio? Nicky was not a large man, but he was armed, like all the guards.

  Could she drug his coffee to put him to sleep? Poison his food? Use a gun with a silencer to kill him? But that was wishful thinking.

  She had no gun, no drugs, no poison.

  And she didn't want to kill anyone.

  No more killing. There had to be another way.

  _____

  Frank focused on the girl's trembling hand, her finger inside the trigger guard of the Glock 9mm.

  In life or death situations his senses became hyper-acute. The sour taste of fear. The damp of his sweaty shirt against his skin. The odor of frying bacon wafting through an open window. Faint sounds from a TV set. Distant sirens approaching but nowhere near close enough.

  Ten seconds from now it could all be over.

  The girl's eyes, large and dark and filmed with tears, were focused on him, no doubt about that. He studied her right hand.

  Her forefinger tightened on the trigger. Situation critical.

  “I'm not going to hurt you,” he said quietly. “Put the gun on the ground.”

  “Don't listen to him!” King Rock screamed. “Shoot the fucker!”

  Her lips trembled. “You shot my man. Why you do that?”