by Trish Reeb
Sheila looked up from her magazine as Alex scooted into her seat. "Where’d you get the headwear?"
"You like?" Posing, Alex placed a hand on the back of her hair.
Sheila leaned away from her with an amused expression. "Go ahead, wear it, if you don’t care about the fashion police."
If she only knew how close she'd come to the truth. "Here, I bought you one." She thought Sheila’s red hair a little too conspicuous for the circumstances.
"What? When did you get these?" She accepted the hat and smoothed out the folds.
"While you hunted for a magazine."
"And I want to wear this because?"
"I asked you to and you’ve never, ever denied me in my whole life."
"Not true. I must've said no once." Sheila looked at her, a twinkle in her eye. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"
Alex placed her hands together as if praying. "Trust me, please? I’ll tell you some day. Just not this one."
Sheila eyed her. "You’re up to something."
"What do you mean?"
"I’ve known you from day one and I know how you are."
"Which is?"
"Alex T doesn't stand for Tamburelli, it means Trouble."
Later, trekking through the airport, Alex’s eyes roved on the lookout for Cole or his cronies hiding behind newspapers, tall cups of coffee, or large columns, pretending to mind their own business. Until she came into range and they caught her unaware. Not going to happen if she could help it. Two hours ahead of schedule, their plane had landed in a different terminal from their original flight. It should slow Cole a bit, but he was no fool. He'd anticipate her strategy and assign men to watch every flight into Detroit from Atlanta, nonstop or otherwise, starting from whenever she could feasibly arrive.
Alex didn't relax until she settled into Sheila’s car. She spent the rest of the trip mentally preparing for the reunion with Ellery. She’d hated using him as an excuse to forego the tour of Atlanta, yet she couldn't deny she needed his bear hug. It would be difficult not to cry, show grief, or disbelief. If she did, he would shut down as if a switch flipped and she would lose what she needed most—connection.
How would he look? Would he be glad to see her or wish she hadn’t come? Would she be able to hide her concern, disguise her feelings, keep from bawling her eyes out? Which would be worse, facing death by cancer or the knowledge your body would gradually lose its ability to function? Alex suspected the latter, especially for an intellect like Ellery. He'd been supportive of her as long as she could remember. Uncomfortable accepting the same from others, he would balk at her efforts. Didn't matter, she intended to provide whatever means were necessary until the bitter end.
Sheila flicked on her blinker to exit onto I-275.
"Do you mind if we go straight to your place?" Alex asked.
"I thought you’d want to get your car," Sheila said, canceling the signal.
"Actually, I need a favor."
"You know all you need to do is ask," Sheila said, her eyes on the road.
"Do you think I could borrow your car tonight?"
Sheila stared at her briefly, but didn’t question the reason. "Sure, any time." Years ago, when Alex had been a teen, they’d made a pact if she ever got into trouble she could call without fear of queries or reprimands. She'd cashed in on the deal like frequent flier miles.
They approached the Humbargers’ refurbished turn-of-the-century house in Ann Arbor. Funny, when the world catapulted out of control, everything in it managed to look normal. Like the orange, gold, and brown wreath with bright blue ribbon adorning their front door, and the antique rocker lounging on the wrap-around porch awaiting warm weather.
Sheila drove up the driveway and into the garage. "Hope I didn’t make a mistake by not calling first. You know how Ellery is."
"He hates surprises." Alex put on a smile, but it felt as forced as the "cheese" grin for the camera.
"Except when it's you," Sheila said.
The two women entered the house through the side door. "Honey, I’m home," Sheila called. Yelps ascended the basement stairs in harmony with clicking nails on the laundry room door. Though their three Yorkies answered, Ellery did not respond. "Alex is with me," Sheila yelled with more gusto.
"His car’s in the garage. He has to be here." She rushed down the hall to the stairway. At the bottom, she paused and listened. "Ellery?" Without removing her coat, she clambered up the staircase. Alex followed. Sheila knocked lightly on the closed bedroom door and twisted the knob. She opened it, sending a long strip of light across the darkened room to the bed. They crept over to the bulge lying atop the comforter.
Alex’s eyes adjusted to the dark. Her heart galloping, she searched for signs of life. Ellery did not stir. Then she laughed softly. "He couldn’t hear us," she whispered, pointing to the buds in his ears.
Sheila turned to leave, motioning for Alex to follow.
"Might as well stay. I’m up now." Ellery yanked out the earbuds.
Alex said, "Sorry, we didn’t mean to wake you."
"The hell you didn’t." He smiled, stretching out his arms. "How are my two favorite girls?" In a group hug, they clung to one another like there would be no tomorrow.
CHAPTER 68
I can’t believe it. Cole hit the door with his fist, not hard, but to release the tension.
"You okay, Detective?" Gino asked, coming out of the bedroom.
Just ducky. "Yeah."
A knock on the door.
Gino peered through the peephole and invited in the uniformed cop there to transport Mercedes to Darrel’s for safe-keeping.
Five minutes later, Mercedes’ eyes puddled when she and Gino embraced. "Call me," she whispered in his ear. "I-I’ll miss you."
Gino gently broke the hug to look at her face. "Be safe. We’ll talk as soon as we can." Over his shoulder, he asked Cole, "May I call?"
"At this point, we don't know what their resources are. They may be able to track cell phones. Let’s wait."
Gino brought his gaze back to Mercedes. "We’ll email. Take good care of her," he said to the cop.
Cole grabbed his coat and followed them, pausing just inside the door.
Mercedes looked back three times on the way to the car and waved to Gino from the window as the vehicle pulled away.
"Thanks for your help," Cole said to Gino, standing in the doorway.
"No problem."
"I hope you’re not doing anything stupid."
Gino lifted an eyebrow.
"Mercedes."
"You kidding? I’m watching her back, nothing more." He moved aside to let Cole through.
"Just checking. Don’t want either of you to get hurt," Cole said. Slipping outside, he trotted to the car.
He inserted the key in the ignition, his mind shuttling back to Martindale’s phone call and its revelation. When they’d examined the picture of Raphael La Fontaine at age six, he’d pushed the thought aside, thinking it ridiculous. Now he wished he’d listened to his gut instinct. One of the first rules Haygood taught him.
Raphael La Fontaine, previously known as McGerald River, deserved an academy award. Cole found it difficult even now to accept the latter didn’t exist. Contemplating the new information, Cole started the engine and maneuvered the car onto the street. Why had Raphael created McGerald River slash Redd Dog? Unless dealing with a sociopath or psychopath, money and/or power were usually at the root of criminal behavior—both accessible to Raphael since birth.
According to Arjay and Mercedes, RD—initials embodying Redd Dog and Raphael Douglas—had implemented his personal army of faithful followers to do his bidding without question. In the perfect position at Girnwood to manipulate students, Mary Winter was a likely candidate for master player. Had it all begun at the private school? An impressionable young teen caught up in a scheme giving him a head rush? Had Raphael been burdened by a bottomless pot of gold, bored by a life containing too much downtime and not enough action to keep
him stimulated? What kid wouldn’t be suckered in by an opportunity to live someone else’s life for a while like in The Prince and the Pauper. He shook his head. In this case, the stakes were too high to support such a banal explanation.
He wanted to know how a rich kid morphed into a street thug and possible murderer. After a call to the La Fontaine residence, Cole drove to a home in Warren to find out what made Raphael Douglas La Fontaine tick.
CHAPTER 69
Following a visit to one of Raphael's former nannies, Cole drove to headquarters downtown. At his desk, he contacted Martindale. "Here’s the kicker on Raphael. Seems child neglect knows no socio-economic boundaries." Cole paused for effect. "Their business, and maintaining a certain life style, always came first for the La Fontaines."
"Plenty of years for anger to fester," Martindale said.
"According to the nanny, Raphael spent a lot of time alone."
"How long did she work for the family?"
"Longer than most, eleven months." Cole scratched his nose.
"So they ran through nannies like toilet paper. You know Raphael's age at that time?"
"Around nine or so."
"Why’d she leave?"
"Scared. He did some nasty stuff. Killed a possum, fed the babies to the garbage disposal." Cole checked his notes. "Said Raphael played people and could've manipulated Freud himself."
"Deception, he’s proved his worth on that score." A sound of drumming. "What else you get?"
Cole shared what Mercedes told him. "I’m thinking they kidnap unconscious Ravers and force them into prostitution."
"Let’s go Raving, see how they do it. I’ll get back to you with the time and place." A pause. "And try not to look like a cop."
"Don’t own an extra set of dreadlocks, do you?"
Martindale laughed heartily. "Sorry, dude. The image is too funny."
Cole chuckled. "No one would recognize me."
After they hung up, he spent the better part of an hour completing paperwork for the Taryn Richards’ file. When he finished, he perused the newest documents and notes, one in particular catching his eye. He read the short report, reread it twice.
Cole glanced at the clock. The dinner hour had come and gone. It didn’t matter. Something more urgent than his growling stomach had his attention. He grabbed his coat and rushed out of the building.
*
Her insides pounding in time to the electronically generated music, Alex breezed into the warehouse. A blast of hot air and flashing multi-colored laser lights struck her as soon as she hit the door. Teens and young adults crowded the dance floor, their skin glistening with perspiration. Gyrating to the music, couples danced as one, their hands roaming each other’s bodies.
Ravers lounged on the concrete floor. Some sat in rows massaging the person in front to relieve the muscle aches as well as satisfy their need to touch. On the periphery, vendors sold Ecstasy-friendly remedies and enhancement aids. Everywhere, people gulped bottles of water and waved glow sticks. Many wore surgical masks soaked in Vicks Vapo-rub to please their olfactory senses. Others sucked strawberry flavored pacifiers.
Alex cruised the building, searching for the tents that helped reduce dangerously high body temps. Two men hauled an unconscious girl through the crowd. She followed them to a make-shift room formed by bolts of material strung from the rafters. The Incredible Hulk stood guard, blocking the entrance.
"My girlfriend’s in there," Alex shouted over the music. "I want to check on her, make sure she's okay."
His arms crossed, he stared out into the crowd.
Alex shrugged and went in search of water. She bought a bottle, downing half in a series of gulps.
"Wanna dance?" a voice bellowed.
Alex stared into the brown eyes of a young man about Gino’s age.
*
Thirty minutes after Cole left the station, he bounded up the stairs and pounded on an apartment door.
The door opened. Burkhart, in a plain t-shirt barely covering his beer belly and worn jeans, stared at Cole, his eyes wide. "What the hell—"
"That’s my line! What the hell’s going on, Burk?" Cole stormed into the living room.
"Kid, calm down before someone calls the cops." He sniggered at his joke, closing the door behind him. "Want a beer?"
"No, I don’t want a beer. I want answers!" Cole forced himself to calm down. He wouldn’t accomplish a damn thing by losing his temper.
Burkhart led the way into the kitchen and grabbed two beers from the door of the refrigerator. He motioned for Cole to sit at the table, claiming the chair opposite.
"Mind telling me what’s got your pantyhose in a wad?" Burkhart asked and took a long swig from the bottle.
Cole opened the beer in front of him, tilted his head back, and pulled on the mouth of the bottle. The cold liquid running down his throat felt therapeutic as it dissolved some of his anger and cleared his head.
He stared at Burkhart.
Burkhart stared back.
"I went over the reports in the Taryn Richards file and came across something about Yolanda Morgan."
"I—"
"Let me finish. I asked you to dig into her past. You came up with shit."
"Wh—"
"I’m not done yet. According to the report filed by Dixon, a rookie I might add, Morgan had a brief stint as a medical assistant at Providence Hospital. How the hell did you miss that?"
Burkhart shifted in his chair. "Look, I assigned it to one of my men. I never thought to question the results. Guess I screwed up."
"Screwed up? Try royally fucked up! If we'd known Morgan worked in the medical field, she would've been our prime suspect from the start." Cole sighed. What did it matter now?
"Tough break, her death," Burkhart said.
Cole’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. "Gotta take this." He let himself out, answering the phone on the run.
"It’s Jordan. Hey, I’m worried about Alex."
Join the crowd. "Why’s that?" Cole asked, knowing she had to be up to something or she wouldn’t have gone to such extremes to avoid him.
"We made plans to hook up tonight, but every time I call, it goes straight to voicemail. She has this wild idea she’ll find the answer to Taryn’s murder at a Rave."
Cole drove his fist into the steering wheel. "Might’ve helped if you mentioned this sooner," he said, figuring Jordan knew of the arrangement when he saw him at the funeral.
Jordan didn’t reply.
He should’ve paid more attention to her comment about drugs being behind Taryn’s murder. Especially knowing how she liked to test drive her theories. "How’d she find out about the Rave?"
"Flier. Think someone left it on her windshield," Jordan said.
More like planted. She’d been setup. What had La Fontaine said on the tape? Something like baiting the enemy and lying in wait. "Where the hell is it?" he asked, unable to keep anger and worry out of his voice.
Jordan read the information off the flier, his voice rising. "I made an effort to talk her out of it but not hard enough. Grant, find her."
"Don’t beat yourself up. She would’ve gone it alone, anyway," Cole said. If only he’d caught her at the airport like he planned but he’d let others do the job. Short-staffed, he'd called in retirees. Gallagher, so near-sighted he couldn’t tell an umbrella from an Uzi, and Lindstrom, more interested in the play-by-play announcer coming from the plug in his ear.
"I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to her," Jordan said.
"I’m glad you called. I’ll find her," Cole said, wishing he felt as confident as his words.
Ending the call, Cole contacted Martindale. "We’ve got a problem."
CHAPTER 70
"No thanks," Alex shouted and walked away. She came back. "What I’d really like to do is sit."
"The name’s Tom. My friends are over there. You can join us if you want," he yelled, his mouth inches from her ear.
She sc
anned the group of four young people huddled on a blanket. All younger, they appeared wholesome enough, never mind that they might be high on Ecstasy. But she did want to sit for a while. Alex sank onto the edge of the blanket, placing her half-filled bottle of water at her side, her jacket next to it. The loud music forbidding conversation, she greeted Tom’s friends with a nod and a smile. Her eyes went to the dance floor.
About twenty minutes later, she picked up her water bottle and chugged it.
More time passed.
Alex stood. She felt strange. Her senses on fire, the pulsating lights—so bright they blinded—changed the appearance of even the simplest forms. The beauty redefined, the ugly reinforced. Intensified music filled her insides, taking command of her body. She leaned over and grabbed Tom’s hand, pulling him to the dance floor. Relaxed, yet energized, Alex rocked to the beat of the music. Never had she had such rhythm. Every sense screamed for stimulation. She wanted to touch Tom and be touched by him. Her energy enhanced, she danced free of exhaustion, feeling at peace, loved, connected. Fear, grief, and anger melted away.
She catapulted into another dimension, forgetting her reason for coming.
*
Cole's Hummer sped over the rough terrain. The unplowed trenched roads required heavy handed steering to keep the wheels out of the ruts. The gut feeling that Alex crossed paths with trouble sat like a bocce ball in the pit of his belly. Once again, she’d ignored the proceed-with-caution sign. He hoped he’d arrive in time to save her pain-in-the-ass butt. How much further to this godforsaken place?
Up ahead, the warehouse, its lights illuminating the road ahead, rose out of the dark like a beast. Cole followed another vehicle into a field overcrowded with cars and trucks of every make and model. He drove to the furthest point from the building. Music drummed in his ears, pounding his head, giving him one hell of a headache. He closed the cracked window, muffling the sound.
Backing into a parking space, he dowsed the lights and waited. In less than five minutes, Martindale knocked on the window of the passenger side. Cole unlocked the door. The agent ducked inside, allowing the cold and noise to sneak in before the slamming door extinguished them. Once again, he wore a disguise. A do-rag on his head, he wore sagging jeans, a belt buckled below his hips, and a long Tee several sizes too large beneath an over-sized jacket.