Tony Marcella 07 - Call of the Witch

by Dana E. Donovan

  “Tony,” he shook his head lightly. “Dominic doesn’t know about Karina and Dmitry. We didn’t tell him.”

  “Shit.” I put the phone to my ear and let out a pathetic sigh. “Dominic. Listen I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. Listen, thanks for the update.”

  “Sure, Tony. No problem. And uh…to answer your question. Nobody was at the studio.”

  “All right. Are you in position now?”

  “Yes. I got six guys out here with me.”

  “Okay, Lionel is just pulling up to the bank now. Our ETA is three minutes.”

  “Got it. We’ll be on the radio.”

  “`Kay.”

  I hung up and tucked the phone in my pocket. Carlos pulled the car into a space along the curb a half block from the bank. We watched Lionel Brewbaker hop out and go inside.

  “Tony.” I thought Carlos was going to give me shit about the way I snapped at Dominic. I guess that just goes to show how even after thirty years, you never know a man. “I want to––”

  “Carlos, I told him I was sorry.”

  “No. That’s not it. I was going to say I was sorry.”

  “You? What do you have to be sorry for?”

  “Well, for one, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, what with Lilith wanting to have a baby and you not wanting a baby. Then you have Dominic, who’s been a mini-basket case himself. He’s living this case vicariously through the Brewbakers. Every time he thinks of Kelly he imagines it’s his and Ursula’s kid.”

  “Aw, he’s not been so bad.”

  “And then you have me. Ha, what a chump I am, huh? If I introduced you to Lauri when I first met her, maybe you’d have helped me see her for what she was.”

  “Carlos, I never should have said anything about her to you. You’re a grown man. You don’t need babysitting. And hey, I really am sorry for that comment I said a minute ago. I didn’t mean––”

  “Tony. It’s okay. You and me. We go back a long way. We can say things to one another. It doesn’t mean the end of the world.”

  “You know, you’re right. Yesterday I––”

  “Whoa, whoa! Here he is. Lionel’s got the money.”

  We both straightened up in our seats. Carlos started the car, dropped it into gear and pulled out into traffic four cars behind Brewbaker. By the end of the three block tail we were only two cars back. We slipped into a parking space in front of a shoe store and shut off the engine. Brewbaker continued another thirty yards, stopping just ten feet from the yellow-striped barricades the DOT set up at the access road to the bridge. We saw the white back-up lights blink as he ran the gearshift up into park. His foot came off the brake. The door opened. He stepped out. Carlos and I put in our earpieces and turned on our radios.

  “This is TC Center One,” I said. “Dominic, you got a visual?”

  He came back, “Roger TC. I have visual.”

  “All units reported?”

  “Yes, sir. All units reported. All have visual.”

  “Roger that. Game’s on. Wait for my word.”

  “Standing by.”

  I turned to Carlos. He was looking at me, smiling. I smiled back. “What?”

  He gestured a nod at my hands. “You’re all white knuckled, Tony. Relax.”

  “I’ll relax when we get that kid back home safe where she belongs.”

  He reached across my lap and popped open the glove box. “There’s a pair of binoculars in there. Wanna get`em?”

  “I don’t need binoculars.”

  “Not for you. For me!”

  “Oh.”

  I handed him the binoculars and we both watched as Lionel Brewbaker strolled up to the two-lane bridge spanning Garfield Creek. He did just as instructed, walking casually so as not to draw attention to himself, the flat leather bag stuffed with money slung over his shoulder. He got on to the bridge and crossed over to the south side. Then, with his elbows perched on the top railing, he peered over the edge and spat into the water.”

  “Why’d he do that?” Carlos asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s probably what I’d do. It looked natural.”

  Dominic came over the radio. “TC Center One. Does that mean anything?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s just spit.”

  “Oh, I thought you guys came up with a signal.”

  “It’d have been a good signal,” said Carlos. “We should have thought of it.”

  “It wasn’t a signal. Now clear the channel.”

  About then, Lionel Brewbaker glanced down at his watch, stripped the leather strap off his shoulder and let the bag drop into the water. He then turned around, casually slipped his hands into his pockets and headed back to his car.

  “That’s the drop. Stay on your toes everyone.”

  Carlos readjusted his rearview mirror to gain sight of the delicatessen behind us where several high school kids were hanging around out front.

  “I don’t see a motorcycle,” he said.

  I leaned to my right and stole a glimpse into the side door mirror. “Maybe there is no motorcycle.”

  “Huh. Would-a-sworn there’d be a motorcycle.”

  I said over the radio. “Anyone got anything?”

  Seven replies came back negative.

  “All right. Hang tight.”

  We waited another three minutes, which seemed like thirty. Neither Carlos nor I said a word. I kept hoping one of our spotters would come over the radio and tell us he saw something. Anything.

  After five minutes, Carlos said, “They must have spotted us.”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. “We’re pretty far back. Plus we got the sun behind us.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I don’t mean us. I mean one of us.” He pointed to the theater building south of the bridge. “I’ve been watching over there, up on the rooftop. Whoever that is, he keeps poking his head up above the marquee.”

  “You sure he’s one of ours?”

  “He better be. He’s got a sniper’s rifle.”

  I keyed in the mic. “Dominic, who do we have up on the roof of the theater?”

  The radio clicked on, “That’s Nicholson, Sir. Zone four.”

  “You want to tell him to keep his head down?”

  “Uh, I think you just did.”

  We gave it another few minutes. When nothing happened after that, I convinced myself something was definitely wrong. I said to Carlos, “We blew it. They’re not coming for the money. They must have seen us.”

  “Maybe they’re going to wait until nightfall.”

  “No. If that were the case, they would have had us make the drop at night. They wouldn’t let the money sit here all day.”

  Spinelli rang me on my phone then. “Tony, I thought you’d like to know that Brittany just called. Lionel Brewbaker’s home now. He wants to know if we have Kelly back. What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them no. And then tell them to stop calling. We’re in the middle of a fuckin` ransom drop here.”

  “Tony,” said Carlos. “Easy.”

  I hung up on Dominic. “I’m sorry, Carlos, but this damn thing is not going the way it’s supposed to. We should have called in the FBI. I swear, if––”

  “Blame me!”

  “What?”

  “I said blame me. If something happens to Kelly then you can pin it all on me. I’m the one that talked you into shutting out the FBI. It’s what Lionel wanted. I had to respect that. He’s my friend. It’s what you do sometimes for friends.”

  “Yes, and sometimes you don’t do what your friends want you to do; instead you do what’s right.”

  “Still….” He put his hands on the steering wheel and gripped it until his knuckles were white. “If anything happens, I’ll accept full responsibility and resign from the force.”

  “No, Carlos. You can’t do that. If you resign. I’ll resign. And you know what that’ll mean.”

  “What?”

  “It’ll mean Dominic w
ill become lead detective on the force. Do you think New Castle is ready for that?”

  He cracked a thin smile, one he tried to disguise as a grimace, but I knew better. I keyed up my mic. “TC Center One, Dominic?”

  “Dominic here. Go.”

  “You got anything?”

  “Negative, TC. All units report.”

  Six units keyed in negative. “All right then, give it another minute, and then meet us on the bridge.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Giving up?” said Carlos.

  “Yes. I think we have to concede. I mean we blew it. They’re not coming.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I guess we pick up the money, wait for the next call and hope the kidnappers aren’t too pissed.”

  “Maybe they weren’t able to get here on time.”

  “You think we disrupted their plans?”

  “If Santana and Martinez are involved, we might have.”

  “What if it’s Haywood?”

  “What if?”

  “He doesn’t strike me as a person who makes too many mistakes. If he spotted us, I don’t think he’d give us another chance.”

  “Let’s hope it ain’t him then.” He checked his watch. “It’s been a minute. You ready?”

  I pointed out the windshield towards the bridge. “Yeah, let’s roll.”

  He started the car. “Hey by the way. What’s the TC stand for, Tactical Command?”

  “No,” I said, but really, it did. “It stands for Tony and Carlos.”

  He gave me an approving nod. “Yeah, I like it.”

  A few minutes later, Carlos, Spinelli and I were standing on the bridge, looking over the railing. The water was only a foot and a half deep there and clear enough to see the bottom. A gentle flow swept the occasional leaf and water bug downstream at something less than walking speed.

  “It’s not there,” said Dominic. “The bag’s not there. Where’d it go?”

  I had made the same observation, but held my tongue, anticipating a perfectly logical explanation. “I see that,” I said, after realizing there wasn’t one.

  “But it couldn’t have been swept downstream.”

  “No. The current’s to slow for that.”

  Carlos said, “Maybe Lionel didn’t drop it.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s not that, either. I saw him make the drop. We saw him make the drop.”

  “We saw him drop something.”

  Dominic asked, “Could he have dropped something other than the money?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t matter,” said Carlos. “Whatever it was, it should still be there.”

  “Not if it was an empty paper bag. That would have floated downstream.”

  “It wasn’t,” I said. “It was the money. I saw it.” I nudged Dominic’s elbow off the railing. “Get down there and find it. Maybe it’s under the bridge a little ways.”

  Dominic hurried to the end of the bridge and slid down the shallow embankment. As he waded into the water towards the center of the creek I asked Carlos, “Is it possible someone came up the creek, I mean right in the water in a stoop like Brit suggested, or maybe on a floatation device of some sort?”

  “No.” He sounded certain. He pointed at the group of cops packing gear into the SWAT team truck. “Nicholson was up on the roof of the theater. He had a sniper’s rifle with a scope and a direct line of sight up the creek. From his vantage point, he could see everything. Nobody could have slithered upstream without him seeing it.”

  “Maybe he did.”

  “What, see someone coming upstream?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tony, no. Not Nicholson. He’s a family man. I’ve known him for years.”

  “Carlos, so have I, but even a family man sometimes yields to temptation.”

  He shook his head emphatically. “Then that just goes to prove what I’ve been saying. You don’t know people like I know people. Nicholson’s a good man.”

  “All right.” I splayed my hand out over the water. “Then you explain what happened to the money.”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, we both turned our attention to Spinelli, who was directly below us now. He had covered every inch of the creek bed in a ten-foot radius beneath the hand railing. “It’s definitely not here,” he said.

  “Well then what the hell did Lionel drop into the water? I saw the splash.”

  “Wait a second.” Spinelli bent down lower until his face was nearly in the water.

  “What is it?”

  He cupped his hands to shield the glare of the sun. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What? What do you see?”

  He began a slow walk toward the underside of the bridge, still looking down, studying the water.

  “Dominic. What do you see?”

  He straightened his back some, not completely, but enough to peer under the bridge in a crouch, his hand now on his brow to visor the sun.

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “Believe what?”

  He pointed at the creek bottom and gestured a sweep of his hand as if indicating a straight line running under the bridge. “I think I see the markings of a dragline.”

  “A what?”

  “Someone has pulled something through the sand here recently.” He pointed again. “There’s a clear trail through the pebbles and sediment. I think….” He rocked his head back to look up at us. “I think someone pulled a dragnet through here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He spread his arms wide. “A net, Tony. Like a cast net. I think the kidnappers laid one out here below the railing. They probably covered it up with an inch or two of sand so no would see it. I bet when Lionel dropped the money into the water, it landed right in the center of the net. Then, when he walked away….” Dominic gestured a pulling motion with both hands as if reeling in a line. “The kidnappers simply hauled in their catch.” He shaded his eyes again, ducked below the arch of the bridge and pointed upstream. “I bet if we look about a hundred yards upstream there, beyond the culvert, we’ll find the rope and net.”

  I pushed away from the railing, looked at Carlos and shook my head, disbelieving that we had been outsmarted. “What do you make of that?” I asked. His expression seemed somehow inappropriate. And I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he was forcing back a smile. I hit him on the chest. “What?”

  My question gave life to his smile. “Told you it wasn’t Nicholson.”

  RELEASE

  After helping Spinelli from the water, the three of us drove around the overgrown field to the north of the creek. We found a small break in the rough vegetation and followed a foot trail back to the water. There, as Spinelli predicted, we found a six-foot cast net, five-hundred feet of line and an empty leather bag.

  “Unbelievable,” Spinelli remarked. “That’s just too damn clever. What do we do now?”

  “We call forensics in.” I pointed at the ground around our feet. “And we get the hell out of here. Look at all the footprints we’ve made already.”

  “And look at those” said Carlos. He pointed at a set of footprints that seemed enormous compared to the ones we made, which is saying a lot, considering the size of Carlos’ feet.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked.

  Spinelli said, “They look like clown’s feet. Who wears shoes that big?”

  “No one.”

  “Sasquatch,” said Carlos.

  Dominic laughed at that. “Sasquatch doesn’t wear shoes.”

  “Sasquatch doesn’t have a need for $300,000 either,” I said. “Let’s get a team out here to collect evidence. Then I think we should––”

  “Wait!” Dominic held his finger up to stop me. “My phone’s vibrating.”

  “Lucky you,” said Carlos.

  “No, Brittany’s calling.”

  “Why is she calling you and not me?”

  “Or me?” I said.

  “Hello?” D
ominic held the phone to his ear with one hand while silencing us with a splayed palm on the other. “Yes?” He was looking down, but his eyes were hyper-wide open. “You’re kidding! Really? Oh, gosh, that’s great. That’s really great! Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll tell them right away.”

  He hung up, and before we could ask him anything, he blurted out, “She’s safe! We have her! We have Kelly. She’s all right!” And then he started to cry. “She’s all right, Tony.” His expression pulled at his face in all contorted ways as he tried to remain composed. They dropped her off on a street corner. She’s okay. She’s….” He trailed off and then lost it.

  “I know. I heard,” I said. I put my arm around him and gave him a great big hug. He collapsed onto my shoulder and let it all out.

  “Carlos!” he said, reaching out to pull him into the fold. Tears were parading down his face like rain. He was laughing and crying at the same time. “She’s all right, Carlos. She’s all right.”

  I saw that Carlos’s eyes were pooling, too. “I know,” he said. “I heard. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  For a moment––for a glorious moment or two, the three of us just stood there in a tight huddle; Spinelli crying like a baby. Carlos trying not to cry like a baby. And me…. I don’t know. I might have cried a little like a baby.

  We called and waited for a member of forensics to come and secure the scene before we high-tailed it down to the hospital. By the time we got there, Kelly had already been moved to a private room. Doctors had examined her and declared her physically well. She showed no signs of maltreatment, malnutrition and best of all, no indication whatsoever that she had been molested. Experience told me, however, that her mental health would require extensive monitoring before anyone could pronounce a similar prognosis in that respect. Still, for a young lady so bright and well-adjusted, I didn’t imagine the scars would run all that deep.

  After a brief family reunion, I asked Carlos if he would take the Brewbakers downstairs for coffee while I interviewed their daughter.

  “Why don’t you ask Dominic to do that?” he complained.

  “He’s processing evidence. Collecting Kelly’s clothes, documenting the hair and fingernail clippings we gathered….” I made a face I knew he wouldn’t like, “examining her undies.”