by Joan Mauch
The following morning, Jackson called in sick. Holding his nose and coughing into the phone, he said, “I came down with some kinda bug.”
Thankfully except for going home to help with his dad, Jackson hadn’t taken any sick days, so it wasn’t hard to convince the assignment desk editor that he really was sick. He’d called early to avoid talking to Morris Stone.
“Yes, I’ll get plenty of rest and drink lots of fluids. I’ll try to make it in tomorrow. Thanks. Bye.”
As soon as he hung up, Jackson began trying to figure out what to do next.
Chapter 39
“Exactly who was it you wanted to see?” The police officer’s face was flushed with what Jackson assumed was exasperation. He obviously had more important things to do than chat with some idiot who didn’t seem to know what he wanted.
“I, er, uh, well, see I don’t know who it was my brother spoke to. He just said…” Jackson looked around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. The room was empty except for the cop behind a glass partition and the drunk sitting on one of the chairs bolted to the wall.
“…I think he said he talked to a detective about becoming an informant.”
The officer sighed. “Do you have any idea which detective it was? It might interest you to know that we have more than one.”
“I’m sorry he didn’t mention his name,” Jackson said, feeling like a lost six year old.
The officer shook his head, mumbled to himself, then said, “Have a chair. I’ll see what I can find out.”
Jackson walked across the room and sat at the opposite end of where the intoxicated man snored. He didn’t want to end up having the guy use him for a pillow—or worse yet—a vomit bag. The digital wall clock seemed frozen in time. How could a minute go by so slowly? Guess when you’re anxious about something, time stands still.
He crossed and uncrossed his legs then his arms and shifted in his seat. With nothing to read and nowhere pleasant to park his thoughts, he began to watch people as they walked into the station with their stories of woe. He managed to overhear the louder ones, those whose distress had overridden their need for privacy:
“I haven’t seen him for two days now,” a woman declared. “It’s just not like him to…” Jackson couldn’t hear the rest. He hadn’t learned whether the missing was a child or adult, husband or boyfriend. He was left to fill in the blanks himself.
The next person had been held up at gunpoint and relieved of his wallet. He was more indignant than frightened: “What the hell’s this city coming to when a guy can’t leave his house without getting held up?” In both cases, the desk sergeant took down some notes and handed them off to what Jackson assumed were detectives.
He yawned, shifted in his seat again and glanced at the clock. Although it seemed longer, only fifteen minutes had passed. He started to think the man had forgotten him when his name was called.
“Mr. Taylor.”
Jackson was led to an interview room by an officer. “The detective will be with you shortly.”
Yeah, sure he would. This was a stalling tactic if he ever saw one. They’d let him stew for another twenty minutes, then tell him they’d never heard of Zac. Just watch. That’s what they’ll do. Then what? Jackson drummed his fingers on the table and tapped his foot. He glanced at the wall mirror. So watch, why don’t ya? He didn’t give a flying fig what they thought.
Looking at the wall clock again, he folded his arms across his chest and let out a sigh. It’d been exactly three minutes. The door opened and in walked a man he’d never seen before.
“I’m Detective Anders. I believe you have some concerns about the whereabouts of your brother?”
Jackson was nearly speechless. He assumed they’d blow him off. But here was a guy who appeared to take him seriously. About six feet tall, the detective had salt and pepper hair with a receding hairline, a kind smile and tired blue eyes that said he’d seen more than his share of tragedy.
“Yes, Officer, er, Detective.” Jackson fumbled for the right words; he didn’t want to offend him. “See, my older brother Zac is visiting from up north and is—was—staying with me. We had a fight the other night and when I got up he’d left with his belongings. I think he might be in trouble.”
“And what makes you think that?” The detective took out a notepad and began to write, looking up between words.
“Well, the night he left he said he came here with information about a guy named Leon who he said he’d struck up a conversation with and the guy mentioned a woman who we reported missing. Said he offered to get close to him and be a police informant.”
“Then what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did the police accept his offer?”
“He said they did.”
“And you believed him?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t I”
The detective tried to take another sip, but the cup was empty. “Maybe he was yanking your chain. I don’t know your brother. Only you can say whether he’d tell you something that wasn’t true. Would he?”
“What? Lie? What on earth for?”
“Maybe to impress you. You said he’s your older brother? He working?”
“N-no,” Jackson stuttered in frustration. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Humor me a minute. What do you do?”
“I’m a TV news photographer.”
“Impressive.”
“Not really. It’s hard work.”
“You make good money?”
“Not now, but I will eventually.” Jackson’s patience was wearing thin. “What’s this have to do with my brother?”
“Maybe nothing. But don’t you see, he probably feels humiliated that you’ve been able to land what most people would consider an exciting job. You’ve got a whole career ahead of you if you play your cards right. And your brother—your older brother, what’s he done with his life?”
Jackson stared at the badly scratched tabletop. He noticed the name Carly and idly wondered if it was someone’s girlfriend.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What’s your brother accomplished so far compared with what you’ve done?”
Answering the detective in a voice barely above a whisper, Jackson said, “Nothing.”
“So, now he wants to do something important. You said he wanted to be some kind of police informant and catch the guy responsible for your friend’s disappearance. Right?”
Jackson nodded. “But, Detective, the guy might be dangerous. I’m worried something might happen to him.”
“Look, if he’s an informant and does as he’s told, he’ll be in touch with his handler. He’s not totally on his own out there.”
“So you’re saying he’s one of yours?”
“I’m not saying anything one way or the other. What I’m telling you is that it sounds like your brother wants to do something he considers important. That being said, you should get out of his way and let him do it.” The detective’s steel-blue eyes drilled a hole right through Jackson. “I know you’re worried about him, but he’ll be all right. Trust me.”
“Can I at least check in with you from time to time to find out what’s happening?”
“Sure, you do that.” The detective stood up, shook Jackson’s hand and walked him to the door. “Catch you later,” he said.
He was gone before Jackson realized he hadn’t learned a damned thing.
Chapter 40
Izzie blinked, trying to figure out where she was and how she got there. It was dark, so dark she could scarcely see her hand as she brought it to her face. Had she been buried alive? A surge of fear coursed through her. Dear God, was she going to die like this with no one knowing what happened to her?
A dull pain throbbed in the back of her skull. She was groggy—thirsty—her tongue so dry it fairly stuck to the roof of her mouth. Where the hell was she?
The last she remembered Leon had erupted in fury when she’d wa
lked in on him. She’d knocked, of course, but he mustn’t have heard, so she’d turned the knob. Discovering the door unlocked, she went inside. After all, it wasn’t as if they were strangers. They’d gone out several times; once he’d even invited her in.
In the beginning, she’d been suspicious. After what Jackson had told her, who wouldn’t be? And she’d seen the video, oh yeah, she’d seen that video. Over and over he’d shown her the damned video. But Leon’s explanation made sense. Besides he’d been a perfect gentleman. He seemed to really care about her. So why not surprise him with a six pack of Coronas? He’d be thrilled.
But that wasn’t what happened. She had opened the door quietly and tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen where she’d heard voices. He was probably listening to one of those police dramas he loved. The girl on the show screamed; the guy shouted. She was nearly to the kitchen when she realized the man doing the yelling was Leon. Who was with him and why was she screaming?
Whatever was happening, Izzie realized she’d better get out of there—and fast. Trembling to the point she could scarcely move, she turned around. The beer slipped from her hand, splashing broken glass and liquid across the hardwood floor. Izzie panicked, covering her mouth with her hand. Tiny barreled through the door, barking furiously and knocking her down—right into the puddle of beer.
“Who’s there?” Leon shouted, following several steps behind the rottweiler, a pistol in his hand.
“Me, it’s just me,” Izzie managed to call out over the din. She’d cut her finger on a piece of glass. The blood made a zigzag pattern down the front of her pale green skirt. Popping the wound in her mouth to staunch the bleeding, she sucked on it a second, then added, “I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear me. This,” she gestured at the mess on the floor, “was supposed to be a surprise.”
Leon’s face transformed from a scowl to a smile. “Tiny, pipe down.” He was about to add something when a young girl tore out of the kitchen.
“Help. Help. You got to help me,” she screamed. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot, her face flushed. There seemed to be the start of a bruise on her cheek. She appeared to be around twelve. The terror on face cried out even louder than her words. Grabbing onto Izzie, she cowered behind her.
Tiny lunged at the child—growling, barking and leaping. Izzie, afraid of the large black dog anyway, shuddered violently.
Amidst the barking and screaming, Leon raised his gun and shot into the air, making a hole in the ceiling and adding a shower of plaster to the mix.
“Everybody, shut the hell up!” he yelled. “And clean up this mess.”
Izzie stared at Leon, her body stiffened in indignation. Who does he think he is, ordering me around? She didn’t take crap like that—not from anyone—and most certainly not from the likes of him.
She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “Is this the niece you told me about? I thought she went home.”
The girl peeked from behind her and shouted, “I ain’t his niece, lady. I been kidnapped. You gotta get me outa here.”
Izzie looked from the frightened child clinging to her, to the man she had begun to trust. “Leon?” she demanded. “What’s she talking about?”
Leon angrily shook his head. “Izzie, why the hell’d you hafta go do something like this? You’ve ruined everything.”
After that all she could remember was the look on his face. It was an odd mix of regret and rage. Then amidst the escalating racket emanating from the girl and the dog, he'd punched her and everything went black.
Now here she was—wherever that might be. Her head aching, she could neither hear nor see a thing. All she could do was wait for what was yet to come.
Chapter 41
Zac forced an awkward laugh. Leon’s coarse joke wasn't remotely amusing. He wasn't a prude, but this guy seemed to think the more obscene the story, the funnier. The man was disgusting. Well, at least the Cuban tasted good. He wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and pushed his chair back from the table. Hoping to get away from the man for a few hours, he said, "I'll see you after awhile."
"Whoa, what're you talking about? When you work for me, you don't take off whenever you feel like it." Leon's harsh glare delivered his message in no uncertain terms.
"All right. Whatever." Zac said, surprised by Leon's scolding. Clearing his throat, he said, "So…it’s like a regular job?"
"Well, duh. Did you think you'd just come and go whenever?"
"To be honest I didn't think about it one way or the other," Zac said. "If I have working hours, what are they?"
"They're when I say they are." Leon's eyes fairly bulged out of their sockets. "That work for you?"
Zac was about to say, “Don't get your shorts in a bunch," but knew he'd better cool it. He had to remember why he'd hooked up with the sonofabitch in the first place. He’d have to hold his tongue—and his temper—till he figured out what happened to Izzie. He knew Jackson wouldn’t be satisfied until he did—and truthfully, neither would he. So he gave Leon a shit-eating grin and said, "Whatever you say, Boss."
“That’s more like it. Now let’s go home and figure out exactly what you’ll be doing.”
****
Back at the house, Leon gestured for Zac to sit down. “Okay, here’s the deal. Every so often, I get a shipment that has to be held till the distributor or buyers come. Could be only a few hours, or even days. In the meantime, it’s our job—yours now—to keep things under control.”
Zac nodded, then wrinkled his forehead. “Now, this shipment…what is it exactly? I mean, is it meth, smack or what?”
“Like I told you, it’s people—illegal immigrants, that’s what we deal in. People from poor countries looking for a better life. We help them find that.” He paused as if to allow Zac a minute to take it in. “So you in? If you’re not, speak up now.”
Zac knew what his answer was, what it had to be, that he really had no choice, but he thought he should appear hesitant—not too eager to get involved in the sordid business. After a few seconds of silence, during which he looked down at the floor, he said, “I’m in. What do I need to do to keep our guests happy while they’re here?”
“Not much really, mostly keep them quiet. You’ll see what I mean when the next shipment comes in.”
“Where do they go after they leave here?”
Leon shrugged. “Wherever cheap labor’s needed. Could be south Florida, across the country, most anywhere. Once the distributor picks them up, I’m out of it. The less we know the better.”
“Why’s that?”
Leon looked a bit agitated. “Let’s just say it can be dangerous to know stuff—if you get my drift.”
Zac got his “drift” all right but needed to know more. “So, do you also export?”
Leon slowly finished the last of his beer. It seemed to Zac he was stalling, maybe trying to think up an answer. “Not all that much. We mostly act as a middleman for the imports. Far as exports go, that’s seldom done and then only on a case-by-case basis.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?”
When Zac didn’t respond, Leon continued. “The market for our product is in the good ol’ U.S. of A. I mean, think about it. Why would poor countries want to import our people when they have more than enough of their own to go around? Americans can afford to pay for the services our imports provide.”
Zac nodded. “I never thought of it that way, but it makes sense. So, what industries hire them?”
“You’d be surprised. Massage parlors, factories, hotels, farms, strip joints, rich people—you name it.”
Zac noticed he hadn’t included whorehouses, but he supposed that was a given. He dreaded what the next few days would bring.
Chapter 42
Zac didn’t have to wait long. That night there was a tapping on the back door. It just so happened that he and Leon were in the living room watching television. Tiny alerted them by his sudden barking and the aggressive dance in whi
ch he threw himself at the door.
“Tiny.” Leon yelled. “Shut the hell up. Sit.” His command was so forceful Zac had all he could do not to slink off into a corner himself.
“Who do you think it is?” Zac said.
“It’s a delivery. You’re about to get your first taste of our import business.” Leon grinned.
Zac shuddered. How could any woman be attracted to a man like that? He supposed some found the guy appealing with his rugged good looks and bad boy personality. He remembered that Jackson said Izzie was pursuing a story that would catapult her to the top of the news media, so the attraction must have all been in Leon’s mind.
“Now let me do the talking. I’ll let you know if I want help. ”
There was a second knock. It sounded like some kind of a signal. There were two short knocks followed by a pause then another knock. With a pistol held behind his back, Leon opened the door a crack, then pulled it back. “Hey Sam, you sonofagun. How ya’ doin?”
Sam was a stocky, muscular man of about six feet. He wasn’t someone Zac would care to tangle with—he’d get the short end of the stick or more likely no stick at all.
“Got somethin’ for me?”
“Sure do.” The man nodded and pulled out some kind of document. “Just sign here and we’ll get them inside.”
As Leon took the paper and signed his name, Zac was reminded of how much their exchange mimicked a business transaction. Of course, in their minds that’s precisely what it was.
“Let’s get ’em inside and I’ll be on my way.” He shook hands with Leon and nodded at Zac. “Seymour finally sent you a helper, I see. About time.”
For a second Leon seemed at a loss for words. “Yeah, this here’s Zac. He came onboard yesterday.”