Dance of Deception

by Trish Reeb

  By her lunch hour, Alex needed a break. Most days she worked through it, keeping her door open to kids needing assistance while she wolfed down a sandwich or soup. Not today. Today, she'd go out and buy candy for her students.

  Against her better judgment, she stopped at Chandra’s open office door to share her intent.

  "Whatever," Chandra said, turning her back.

  "Uh, could you relay the message if anyone comes by to see me?"

  Chandra whirled around and glared at Alex. "Do I look like your personal messenger?"

  Why didn't she learn? Of course the woman wouldn’t cooperate, it went against her nature. Unless the person happened to be male, then she became all sugar and spice and everything nice. Alex stomped away, angry at herself more than Chandra. She was who she was. In the storage room, she opened the refrigerator and grinned at the sign she’d taped to the six-pack of diet Pepsi she’d carted in this morning: If you ask, I might. She grabbed a can and shoved it into her handbag.

  On the way out, Alex ran into Ms. Hudson, ninth grade U.S. History teacher new to the staff this year. The woman said the expected hello, but her look of sympathy verging on pity threw Alex. What's that about? It was common knowledge she’d lost her best friend, but what else had the grapevine broadcasted? That she'd been assaulted? Bobbi and Ellery knew but they'd never gossip about it. That a monster killed Sami? How would anyone know since she hadn’t told a soul? She nodded to herself. Of course, the ghost, guilty on both counts, would think nothing of circulating rumors. The text message flashed in her mind: rd he dangerous look out. Could McGerald River, AKA Redd Dog, be the rd referred to in the message? Absently, she scratched her wrist. He had the same build as the ghost. Walking again, she bumped up the pace, her heart pumping wildly.

  Down the hall a boy leaned into a girl. The bulky sleeve on his bent arm resting on the wall next to her head hid the girl’s face. His back to Alex, the kid's hoody neutralized his identity as well. Closing in, she still couldn't grasp the drone of their conversation. The girl shrank from the boy. Her head rolled slightly to the side giving Alex a shot of her face. Their eyes met.

  Mercedes.

  Alex opened her mouth to tell the boy to back off.

  Mercedes’s eyes pleaded don’t.

  "Let’s get to class," Alex said.

  The boy dropped his arm. Thinking he intended to turn and speak to her, Alex backed away slightly. Instead he bolted, dragging Mercedes with him. She reached for the girl, barely brushing her sleeve. Seconds after Alex’s brain prompted her feet to run, the pair reached the exit. Mercedes looked back, her face stricken with fear, just before the door slammed behind them. The rattling of the protective iron grate on the window echoed down the hall.

  A dozen steps later Alex burst through the door into a black and white panorama of snow banks, dingy buildings, and the dark clothing of loitering teens. Searching for Mercedes and her abductor, she caught sight of them crossing Plymouth Road, a four lane highway. Dodging honking cars, the boy towed Mercedes by the arm.

  "Stop!" Alex screamed, the wind intercepting her voice and sending it back. Taking a step forward, she bumped into a quintet of boys who hadn't been there seconds before. "Excuse me."

  They encircled her, knocking knuckles.

  "Dawg, ain’t seen you at Pimp-daddy’s party last night," one dude said.

  Holding onto a teen’s arm, Alex stood on tiptoe to look for Mercedes. She couldn’t see over his shoulder. "Let me through," she said, tugging on his sleeve.

  "Nah, I be takin’ care of bizness," his friend said.

  Alex attempted to squeeze between two of the boys.

  "You ain’t miss nuthin’."

  "Get out of my way," Alex shouted.

  "Did you watch the game?" another dude asked.

  "Nah, the Pistons suck."

  Alex glared at the boys. "I know you hear me," she shouted, pushing into them again.

  "I stayed at the crib and watched Training Day."

  "Dawg, again? You gotta get a life."

  "Hey, think we better get to class?"

  They laughed.

  The teens knocked knuckles again. They parted, branching out in different directions.

  Freed from the human jail, Alex dashed to the curb. She searched the street for Mercedes and the boy. No sign of them. Her heart heavy, she pivoted and eyed the spot where she’d been played moments earlier. Traces of their footprints left in the snow were the only signs to prove she hadn’t imagined it. Having accomplished their task, aiding and abetting in Mercedes’s kidnapping, the boys had disappeared. And she could identify nary a one.

  Fast-heeling it to the parking lot, Alex called security on her cell phone. No one answered, of course. She punched the main number and reached head secretary, Mrs. Evans.

  "Send security. Mercedes Lewis has been abducted," she said loud and fast.

  "Pardon? Who is this?"

  "Alex Tamburelli."

  "What is it, dear?"

  "Mercedes Lewis. A student."

  "What happened to her?"

  "I told you. She’s been abducted," Alex said, raising her voice.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I’m sure. I’m going to look for her now."

  "I’ll send Ms. Morgan. She's right here."

  "No! Do not send Morgan," Alex shouted. "Never mind. Forget it!" She closed her phone.

  Reaching her car, she quickly slid inside and started the engine. She drove a dozen streets searching for a sign of Mercedes. Nothing. She slammed the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. Where had they taken her? Mercedes could be held hostage in any one of the houses she passed. Forty minutes elapsed and her lunch hour had almost expired. With no more time to search and her heart heavy, she pointed the car toward the school.

  A rusted out Mercury had claimed her parking spot. Driving up and down the aisles she found a place in the first row, far from the entrance to the building. Alex backed into the space, cut the engine. She spotted Yolanda Morgan in a Dodge Neon driving toward the exit of the lot. Had Mrs. Evans said something even though she told her not to? If anything happened to Mercedes she'd never be able to live with herself.

  The Neon left the parking lot. Alex turned the ignition, counted to ten and followed.

  CHAPTER 47

  "Did you know McGerald River also goes by the name of Redd Dog?" Cole asked Martindale following Alex’s phone call.

  He nodded. "What about him?"

  Cole opened his notebook. He pushed it across the table. "Someone anonymously sent this text to Alex."

  Martindale read the message. "You think rd stands for Redd Dog."

  Cole shrugged. "It’s possible." He excused himself and came back with a book. "This look like typical reading material for someone like McGerald River?"

  Martindale studied the title and thumbed through the pages. "Is this a trick question?"

  "Found one like it at River’s house."

  Martindale tipped his chair back until it rested on two legs. "Mind explaining what you were doing there?"

  Cole lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he contemplated how much to share. Looking up, he said, "I’d rather not."

  Martindale stabilized the chair. "The uncle might be reading it."

  "Not sure there is an uncle. No sign of one. Let’s assume for a moment the book belongs to River."

  "You’re saying River lives alone?"

  "Appeared that way."

  Martindale shrugged. "A lot of speculation, but I’ll play along. If River, AKA Redd Dog, is the rd referred to in the text message and if Sun Tzu’s Art of War is his Bible," he shrugged, "where does that take us?"

  "I don’t know. Think about it, the house was bare of all personal items except for this book. It’s not much to go on, but what else do we have at this point?"

  Martindale shook his head. "Nada."

  Cole told him about Arjay.

  "No reason for the attack?" Martindale asked.

 
Cole shook his head. "Arjay’s an honor student due to graduate in June."

  Martindale nodded knowingly. "Kids have been beaten for less."

  Cole stretched. "I’m going to drop by Arjay’s to question him about the assault. You mind laying low for a couple of days? Let whoever set you up think we fell for their ruse."

  Martindale agreed. "I’ll see what I can dig up on McGerald River. Then we’ll rattle his cage and see what crawls out."

  Cole handed him The Art of War. "Something to read in your spare time. We can compare notes."

  "Don’t you want to read it?" Martindale asked.

  "I bought two copies."

  *

  When the compact car merged onto the Jefferies freeway a few minutes later, Alex followed several cars behind. Like a NASCAR driver, she wove in and out of traffic keeping pace with the Neon. Her heart racing, fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, and the adrenaline pumping through her body, she felt a rush she hadn’t had since she and Taryn roller-coastered all over Cedar Pointe in Sandusky, Ohio.

  Her mind off on a tangent, at first she didn’t notice the Neon had gathered speed. She caught sight of it a quarter mile down the road zigzagging through traffic. Had Morgan spotted her? How? She’d been careful not get too close. Ah-hah. The Roadster. Alex hadn’t driven her SUV today. The sporty car would be hard to miss, kind of like the prom queen at a sock hop. Striving to lose her, Morgan must have something to hide, Alex reasoned. She stepped on the gas.

  Soon the traffic slowed to a crawl. Stuck behind a UPS truck, Alex couldn’t see anything ahead. If she didn’t swing around it, she’d lose Morgan. Flipping on the turn signal, she waited for the semi in the right lane to leave an opening. The driver slowed. Alex swerved in front of him, waving her thanks.

  The Neon, more than half a dozen cars ahead, exited the freeway. Crap. Caught in a traffic grid-lock, Alex’s heart thundered in her tight chest. If she didn't do something quick, Morgan would get away. Contrary to her principles and the law, not that unlawful deterred her lately, she drove onto the shoulder of the expressway. Ignoring the evil-eyed looks of the other drivers, she motored all the way to the exit, rationalizing extenuating circumstances.

  By the time Alex approached the intersection at the top of the ramp, the light turned red. She skidded to a stop and waited, her fingers twitching on the steering wheel. Alex, it’s a one way street. Go! The traffic cleared and she made the turn, stepping heavily on the gas. Her heart raced. A block away, the Neon turned left. Seconds before Alex reached the cross street, the light changed. She hadn't driven this far to lose the chase. Checking the right, the left, and back and with no cop or cars in sight, she made the illegal turn.

  Up ahead, the Neon disappeared between the buildings on the left. Accelerating, she neared the approximate spot Morgan vanished and slowed. A sedan vacated a parking space on her side of the road. A lucky break, she eased the car in between two vehicles. She stuck her cell phone in her coat pocket, clawed change from her wallet, and shoved her purse beneath the seat before exiting the car and locking it. Across the street a young couple strolled hand in hand, the only other pedestrians in sight. She fed money to the meter hoping to make it back before the hour ran out.

  Her eyes swept the block. An abandoned building clad in broken windows and graffiti, a tired looking office building, a one story advertised as a shelter, and an upscale apartment building seemed to be the only structures with street access. Ruling out the first, she crossed the street to the office building. Inside the lobby, a display case listed its residents as lawyer, CPA, acupuncturist, travel agent, and insurance sales—any one with whom Morgan might've scheduled an appointment. Out back, all the spaces in the lot were taken, but none by a Dodge Neon. Next, she visited the shelter thinking Morgan could be a volunteer there—although she couldn’t imagine why she’d leave a paying job to work for free. Not surprisingly, she struck out again.

  That left the apartment building, "Foxworth" according to the granite marquee in front of the three story building. Not a place Morgan likely could afford on a security guard’s income. But her last shot.

  CHAPTER 48

  Wind whipping his backside, Cole hurried up the walk to a small clapboard bungalow. Flapping corners of a faded out-of-order note posted above the doorbell drew his attention. He knocked. The flimsy screen door banged against the jamb with each tap.

  A woman answered, her folded arms encased in the sleeves of an olive green sweater. "Yes?"

  He showed his badge. "Detective Colton Grant."

  She leaned closer, peering past a slit in the screen. "I’m Ms. Fletcher. What can I do for you, Detective?"

  "I’d like to ask Arjay a few questions."

  "Don’t know if he’ll talk to you." She shivered, evoking a quiver in her voice.

  "Mind if I give it a try?"

  "He pretty shaken."

  "Understandable. Suffered a nasty beating. How is he?"

  She pushed the screen open. "Okay on the surface."

  Arjay, wearing ear pods and a black and gray jogging suit, lay on the worn couch in the living room, his eyes closed.

  "Arjay, you got a visitor," Ms. Fletcher said, raising her voice.

  Struggling to sit, he flinched and lay back.

  His mom helped him to a sitting position.

  Arjay shut off the iPod, shoved the headphones to the back of his neck. The cuts on his face and hands looked red and raw, while his other injuries remained hidden under long sleeves and pants or beneath his epidermis.

  "Arjay, I’m Detective Grant." Cole sat in the easy chair beside him. "Sorry to intrude. Mind if I ask a few questions?"

  The boy shrugged. "Help yourself. But I only got a look at their kicks."

  Their shoes. Cole nodded. "You see McGerald River?"

  Arjay stared at him blankly.

  "Redd Dog."

  The teen squared his shoulders. "Yeah," he said bitterly. "Played like he was watching my back."

  "And he wasn't?"

  "Naw. Bitch, sorry, ma, probably was behind it."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "A feeling."

  "Tell me about it."

  Arjay replaced the ear pods and closed his eyes. He tapped his fingers in time to the music. A minute, then two. He removed them and gave Cole a wry look. "Guess you ain’t, aren’t, leaving."

  "If you know something, I’d like to hear it," Cole said, sitting forward.

  "Me and my boy, Jimmy Struthers, used to be cool. Until he started hanging with RD."

  "What happened?"

  "He doesn’t talk to me now."

  "Jimmy Struthers one of the boys who attacked you?"

  Arjay stared at him for a long time. Slowly, he nodded his head. "It’s not his fault. He didn’t want to be there, could see it in his eyes. But he does whatever RD tells him."

  "What’s Redd Dog’s game?"

  "Don’t know. He’s shifty, off his rector."

  "You mean out of control."

  "Yeah."

  "What can you tell me about his operation?"

  Arjay shrugged. "He’s too smart to show his hand at school. Whatever he’s doing takes place somewhere else."

  "How do you know Jimmy is one of his boys?"

  Arjay subtly cocked his head to the side and back. "Used to see Redd Dog next door a lot. Not any more. Not since he recruited him. Now that he owns Jimmy, no need to come around."

  "Not easy for gang members to break free. Think that’s the case with Jimmy?"

  Arjay's face hardened. "Wouldn’t surprise me." He shifted his position slightly. "Wish I knew what Redd Dog's game is."

  Cole couldn't agree more. "Thanks." He wrote his cell number on the back of his card. "You get in trouble again, call me."

  Guess Lawrence Burney belonged to an army of sorts after all—to Redd Dog’s army. Had River ordered him to turn in Alex’s purse? And if so, had it been one of his soldiers who attacked her or had it been Redd Dog himself? He fit the descrip
tion: short, stocky.

  Cole drove into the school parking lot craning his neck, searching for Alex’s car. He wasn’t eager to see her after what happened last night. Their brief encounter this morning hadn't lasted long enough for either of them to experience the discomfort and regret standing between them like a partition. It could’ve been worse had he let his sex drive get behind the wheel. All morning, thoughts of her had wormed their way through the layers of his mind. If he found her SUV or the roadster in the lot, at least he could be fairly certain he'd find her inside the building and not gallivanting around to who-knew-where. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, he noted her lunch hour had come and gone. Of course she might've taken a later lunch, but because Alex was Alex, he couldn’t afford to assume anything. He’d told her to stay put; but, if a clue happened by, she’d chase it as if she were a cat after a field mouse.

  Once he ascertained neither car was parked in the lot, he located an empty space and hustled to Alex’s office. Maybe someone knew of her whereabouts. His mind drifted back to the previous night after he dropped her off. He and Benson had run by the school to check on the team's progress—still waist deep in garbage. Around eleven o’clock the entries from Taryn’s journal surfaced implicating Martindale. He considered arresting him at home but wanted witnesses. An hour later, scraps from Alex’s note surfaced. Although it didn’t identify the author, it did provide a potential clue to his personality: someone with a penchant for using Shakespearian words to threaten and bully. And the patience and motivation to lie in wait for the right time. For what and when Cole didn't know and wouldn't until he figured out his game.