Back AT You

by John W. Mefford

  “I don’t care about that stuff.” More tapping against my chin.

  He sat back down, put a hand on my knee. I turned my head and looked at him. He popped his eyebrows as his hand slowly moved up my thigh.

  “You’re so deprived,” I said. “Or are you just hitting your sexual peak?”

  He tapped my thigh and then stood up again. “Okay, I know you have something on your mind. You want to talk about it on the way to the dinner?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Oh, wait.” He pointed at the phone. “Who texted you?”

  “Stan. I’d asked him earlier if he could speak with the father to see if he would talk to me.”

  “Why would you even want to do that? Are you writing a book or something—what makes the criminal mind tick?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He nodded. “You’re in the mode.”

  “Sorry.” I stood up and put a hand on his chest. “When the cops arrested him, the man didn’t seem to be what I was expecting.”

  “You did say he looked like an average guy, wasn’t all inked up with scars on his face and wearing a torn T-shirt. But you and I both know that could be a façade for what’s really going on up here.” He popped a finger to the side of his head.

  “Maybe. Probably. But he also started saying how the little girl—I found out her name is Lila—would be in danger if given back to her mother. Stan’s text says I can meet with this guy if I can get there in the next thirty minutes. I just want to hear him out. Is that so wrong?”

  He kissed my cheek. “It’s who you are, Ivy. One of the many reasons I love you.”

  “I’ll meet you at your dinner. I promise to make it before they get to your award announcement.”

  He smacked my butt. “Do your thing, Ivy.”

  I smacked his butt in return. “And maybe I’ll do you, later.”

  I was gone before he could make another patented move on me.

  12

  Alex

  Thirty minutes after I left the home of Grant Valdez, I put in my mandatory hourly status call.

  “I have the two boxes, and I’m in the car headed back to the compound.”

  Carter said, “Okay.” An extra second of silence. “Good.”

  That brief pause made me wonder if he’d expected to receive this call from me. It was as though he knew that Valdez would attack me, hold me hostage, maybe kill me. Had this whole thing been a setup to a lure me to Valdez’s home so he could rape me? That didn’t sound plausible. Back at the compound—and even before then, when they’d threatened to kill Erin to get me out to Vegas—it seemed like Carter and Nixon had a plan: use me to pick up their drugs. So, why had they sent me into Valdez’s sex cave without any warning? Why, now, did Carter sound surprised to hear from me?

  I waited an extra beat to see if Carter would ask me about Valdez. He didn’t. I considered telling him how I was damn lucky to escape with my life and his two precious boxes, but I held back.

  “Not sure what time I’ll arrive,” I said.

  “Just continue calling in with your hourly status updates.”

  Click.

  A deep sigh.

  I put an elbow on the door and used a hand to prop up my head as I stared into a sea of red. Brake lights lit up the winding path of interstate traffic.

  “The City of Angels,” I said to myself, immediately seeing the irony in the name. You had to have wings and fly over this gridlock to have any hope of making decent time to get through the city traffic.

  I’d had enough time to calm down some after my run-in with Grant Valdez. I was certain, though, that he wouldn’t soon forget me. I just hoped it would scare him into changing his behavior.

  “Yeah, good luck with that.” I’d been talking to myself more and more since I’d essentially been shut off from the rest of the world. On the way to LA, I had this strange sense that someone was watching my every movement. Carter had told me not to contact anyone or he would harm Erin. That fear had kept me from reaching out to Brad, Jerry, or anyone else. Now, as I crawled through ever-thickening traffic, I began to question my judgment. It just didn’t seem possible that a person could tail me through all this traffic into and now out of LA. I didn’t doubt that Carter and Nixon were tracking my general movement through some type of GPS-tracker on the phone they’d given me or even on the Chrysler 300. Unless they’d contracted with a firm that had dispatched a fleet of drones, personal surveillance seemed unlikely.

  I wondered if that should change my current approach. Brad was probably worried like hell about me. Maybe I could stop at a gas station and ask a random person to borrow a phone. If I shared with Brad what I’d actually experienced, though, wouldn’t he worry even more? He’d probably try to talk me into getting Jerry involved and initiating some type of FBI raid on the compound. Part of me thought that was the prudent move. But I couldn’t help but feel a nibble at the back of my mind. I had no idea who the men were behind the Carter and Nixon masks, or how far-reaching their operation was. Did they have contacts in law enforcement that allowed them to run their drug-sex business under the radar?

  I knew that prostitution was legal in most of the Nevada counties, so that fact probably made it easier to get away with this illegal operation, and easier on whoever was helping to provide cover…local police, state police. Did it go any higher than that? Government officials or even federal officials stationed in Nevada?

  There was no way for me to know. As isolated as I felt even amongst the millions of people bustling around LA, I decided to stay the course. I had what I came for: the two boxes of what I believed were drugs. My only question was what would happen once I drove into the compound and gave Carter and Nixon this so-called ransom? Would they hold up their end of the bargain and allow Erin and Becca to leave with me?

  Squeezing the steering wheel, I took in a deep breath. My emotions had been driving nearly every decision up to this point. My FBI brain, though, was making a strong play right now.

  “Will they hold up their end of the bargain and allow Erin and Becca to leave with me?”

  Saying it out loud turned up my FBI radar. The answer wasn’t clear cut, though. Carter and Nixon had hidden their faces for a reason—obviously, they didn’t want me to identify them. But to whom? Before, I was thinking they were concerned about me giving their descriptions to law enforcement. But what if they were actually worried about me telling someone else?

  Possibly Valdez?

  The guy seemed like he was on a fast track to nowhere. Carter, on the other hand, had this air about him that made me think he swam in money. Probably all illegally acquired, but I doubt he’d ever worked a blue-collar job in his life.

  Was there someone else on this trek that I’d yet to encounter, someone to whom they thought I might spill the beans? It was possible. But once I made it back to the compound, what use did they have for me? Did they think I would take the girls, say “thank you,” and then simply move on with my life? They knew I worked for the FBI. And once I had the girls in safe custody, they had to know that I’d send in the cavalry. Unless…unless they intended on holding something over my head. A new threat that would keep my mouth shut.

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel column and contemplated how I should deal with this dilemma. My initial thought? I was screwed either way. Carter and Nixon probably knew I wanted my Erin back even more than they wanted their drugs. They had the upper hand. I couldn’t play hardball. As I juggled all the possibilities, it was if a steel plate were forming in my neck. I rubbed it vigorously, but I knew it would do no good. Brad had his ways of relieving my tension—what I would give to feel that kind of normalcy again. But he wasn’t around.

  No one was.

  13

  Ivy

  The father’s name was Gerald Bailey. Stan had told me that much when I arrived at the police department that also housed a jail for those waiting to be arraigned. As Stan accompanied me to an interrogation room, he gave me the eye.
r />   “What?” I said.

  “You’re dressed like a woman.”

  My little black dress.

  Stan wasn’t ogling. He, like most people not named Saul, typically saw me in clothes that blended in with the crowd. Plain-Jane. Vanilla. Whatever you want to call it. Stan was like an older brother to me, a big lovable bear. Check that. He used to be a big bear, eating everything his paws touched—donuts and candy bars were two of his favorites. But after losing his arm to a homicidal maniac—courtesy of my most zealous past demon—he took the challenge laid down by his cousin Nick, an FBI agent out of the Boston office. They would race each other in the Boston Marathon, with the winner carrying the ultimate bragging rights. Stan first had to drop about eighty pounds. He changed his diet, ran twice a day, sometimes with me. But he was fiercely driven by the need to beat his cousin in the race.

  During the marathon, however, a series of bombs were detonated. Stan escaped injury, but Nick wasn’t as lucky. After two surgeries, his life had hung in the balance for a couple of days. Stan stayed at his bedside almost the entire time. Nick survived, and from what I heard, he’d been recuperating nicely, eager to rejoin his partner, Alex Troutt, at the FBI. I’d worked with them both a while ago. Nick and Alex were good people, dedicated law-enforcement officers who weren’t afraid to push things beyond the bureaucratic norm if it helped reach the investigative goal.

  “Did I tell you that Bailey—when I brought up your name—actually said he wanted to meet with you? Kind of surprised me, honestly, given you’re the one who chased him down. So that’s why this meeting is happening. His lawyer advised him against meeting with you, but Bailey was hell-bent on it.”

  Interesting.

  During the rest of the walk to the interrogation room, Stan talked about his wife Bev and their son. Ethan had autism. It had taken a toll on the family, but I’d also seen the three of them share some special moments, although most were short-lived. Stan called them snapshots because they happened so quickly. But he told me he’d learned to treasure those moments, adding, “I could have never predicted any of this. Didn’t think it would happen to me. But after I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I realized that life’s greatest challenges can also be life’s greatest rewards. You just have to keep your eyes open or you’ll miss them.”

  Stan opened the door to the room. Bailey was already in his seat. He was handcuffed to a metal railing on top of a table that was bolted to the floor. It seemed like overkill, but I kept my mouth shut. A uniformed officer stood in the corner. He gave me a cordial nod.

  “If I want to get home before midnight, I need to go knock out some work at my desk,” Stan said, motioning over his shoulder, using his prosthetic arm to do so. “The officer, here, will take Bailey back to his cell once you’re done. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks.” I turned and suddenly felt a bit conspicuous about my attire. Not because of Bailey. But because of the officer, who kept shifting his eyes to me. I wasn’t used to the Zahera treatment—my dear friend was a goddess. In my pre-Saul days, whenever she and I went out, every pair of eyes devoured her. I’d served as nothing more than her interesting sidekick, which had been fine by me.

  I ignored the cop and sat down.

  “Thank you for taking the time to come and speak with me.” Bailey sat a little taller in his chair. Outside of his county-issued orange jumpsuit, he looked like a regular guy. Different than when I’d seen him jumping out of his car, covered in sweat, his face full of fear and rage. Right now, he seemed calm. Then I noticed that he was wringing his hands, probably trying his hardest to contain his anxiety.

  “Why did you do it, Mr. Bailey?”

  “Please call me Gerald.”

  “Okay. Gerald. Why did you kidnap Lila, and what did you intend to do to her?”

  “Wow, you don’t waste any time, do ya?”

  I lifted my hands and let them drop to the table. “I don’t want to waste my time listening to you justify the kidnapping of a little girl who was obviously very scared.”

  He tried bringing his arm to his chest, but his cuffed wrist stopped that movement. He shook his head. “You’ve got to know that I would never do anything to Lila. That little girl is…” He looked off into the distance. His dark eyes became glassy. He gulped in a breath and then turned back to me. “I love Lila. She’s a jewel. But it’s because I love her so much that I did what I did.”

  “Here we go.” I crossed my legs. Why had I wanted to speak with this guy?

  “Hold on a second. Hear me out.”

  “I’m listening…at least as long as I can stand it in the few minutes we have.”

  “I’m not a perfect person, Ms. Nash.”

  Ms. Nash? Sounded matronly. “You can call me Ivy.”

  “Ivy, okay. Well, I know I’m not a perfect husband or even the perfect father. But I do love my girls. Every family member, every friend will tell you that.”

  I was sure that could be verified. I motioned with my hand for him to continue.

  “Look, you’re the woman who kept me from getting away. Most guys would want to bust you up. But here I am talking to you…of my own volition. Want to know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I looked you up. Well, I had my lawyer do it. He told me you own a PI firm that specializes in helping kids who are in bad situations. ECHO, right?”

  “Gerald, this is really up to the courts now. If you convinced the police that Lila is truly in danger—and I’d like to hear why you think that—Child Protective Services will likely open a case and go visit the home.”

  I did an internal eye roll. CPS in the state of Texas was an absolute joke. I knew…because I’d once worked there. I could fill a spreadsheet with a list of things on how that agency let down so many kids. Their ineptitude had led to countless children being abused, raped, even murdered. When I couldn’t take any more of their gross negligence, I’d left and created ECHO. Cristina and I had grown a nice little business, but we didn’t hide behind a bunch of bureaucratic rules. A child’s safety always came first, even when that went against the requests of paying clients.

  “Jill is an addict,” he said, staring me in the eye.

  “Your wife?”

  He nodded, closed his eyes for a brief moment. “I used to have a lot of empathy for her. I tried to help her. Put her in rehab a half dozen times. Every time, though, she’d come out and swear she was clean. Then, usually within a few weeks, I’d start seeing the signs. I was afraid to go to frickin’ work, not sure what condition she’d be in when I got home.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Not sure I’ll still have a job after all this, but I do IT project management at a firm called PMI.”

  Not your typical Amber Alert perpetrator. “Tell me more about your wife’s issue.”

  “We used to be happy. She was a nurse. I did my PM gig. We made decent money, I guess. One day I found pills in the medicine cabinet that weren’t prescribed to either one of us. I asked her about it, and she said she had one of the doctors at her hospital give her something for a sore back. I thought nothing of it. Well, a few weeks go by, and I see another bottle, this one filled to the top. I didn’t say anything. I checked the bottle a few days later, and it was almost empty. That’s when I started connecting the dots.”

  “The dots. What am I missing?”

  “She’d changed. She was always sick to her stomach, lost a lot of weight, had huge mood swings. She looks gaunt, you know, like she has two black eyes.”

  “And you had nothing to do with those black eyes?”

  He made a scoffing noise. “I know I’m wearing this orange get-up, and I’m in handcuffs, but this isn’t me. I don’t break the law. Ever. I sure as hell wouldn’t hit a woman.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  “Harm my daughter? You think I would harm my daughter?” His eyes fluttered as I saw his intensity skyrocket.

  “Calm down. I’m just asking a question. You wanted
me here.”

  He huffed out a breath. “I was raised by two good parents who taught me to treat everyone with respect, starting with women.”

  “Very noble of you.”

  “You’re skeptical. I can understand why. But you have to believe that my wife is an addict. I’m telling you that she’s a different woman than when I married her.” He used his shoulder to rub his face. “If you don’t believe me on that point, then I guess you’ll never believe anything else I say.”

  Gerald suddenly looked like he’d aged another ten years. Creases around his eyes appeared deep enough to hold a coin. I shifted in my seat, allowing my mind to walk through everything he’d shared up to now.

  “What’s her drug of choice?” I asked.

  “Fentanyl.”

  One of the most popular and lethal opioids that had been tearing a deadly swath across the country. “Okay, let’s assume I agree that your wife has a severe addiction issue.”

  He put his palms flat on the table and released a pocketful of air. “Okay. Good.”

  “That being said, you still haven’t told me why you lost it and ran off with your child. And, more importantly, why she would call the police on you if you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Five more minutes,” the cop said from the back of the room.

  I gave him a quick nod, then looked to Gerald. “Well?”

  “Being married to an addict is like…I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It’s like being chained to the Tasmanian Devil. She’s all over the place, so needy at times, so hateful at other times. It’s fucking exhausting.” He cleared his throat. “Pardon my language.”

  “Continue,” I said.

  “So, this morning, her paranoia was at a level ten, I’m telling you. She was all over the place, ranting and raving about one thing or another, usually ending with me. She finally went back to take a nap. So, I stayed home from work and played with our youngest, Lila.”