by Susan Fleet
As if Hunter gave a shit.
Did they take a picture of Emily? Probably. And Mom, too.
He opened the coloring book Donald Duck had given him, a kid's book with big outlines of cars and trucks and buses. If it had lions and tigers and birds and reptiles, he would have colored a picture to pass the time, but he didn't feel like it.
Now he had something to write with, maybe he'd keep a diary. A diary of his kidnapping.
He opened the box of crayons. There were only eight. If they gave one like that to Emily, she'd probably pitch a fit. At home she had a big box of Crayola crayons with sixty-four colors.
He took out the brown crayon and opened the coloring book to the center page. In the upper margin he printed: DONALD DUCK IS OKAY. MICKEY MOUSE IS A SHITHEAD.
Then he thought about it and scribbled over SHITHEAD. If Mickey Mouse found it, he might kill him.
Another plane rumbled by overhead. He printed KENNER and AIRPORT in the opposite margin. He couldn't think of anything else. His stomach rumbled. Would he get anything to eat today?
He put down the crayon and thought about Mom. She was the best mom in the whole world. Even when she yelled at him for something, like when he left his bike out on the sidewalk, she always gave him a hug afterwards.
What if he never saw her again?
Tears filled his eyes and his throat clogged up. Fearing he'd cry, he jumped off the bed and stomped around the room. He hated these kidnappers. They were mean. Locking him in a room with nothing to do. Feeding him yucky food. Keeping him away from Mom.
Maybe Emily was in a room with Mom. Lucky her.
Everyone hated him. Hunter. His father. The kidnappers.
He got off the bed, went over to the bureau and picked up the rosary and the silver cross. His only clue. But what good was it? He couldn't throw it out the window where somebody could find it. The windows were nailed shut.
Today was Monday. Sometimes he complained about the homework, but he loved going to school. On Mondays he had English first, then Science with Mr. Desautel. Mr. D was going to help him with his science project. The life cycle of frogs. If he lived to complete it.
What would Robbie Lee's life cycle be?
Dead at the age of ten, murdered by kidnappers?
_____
8:30 AM
Alone in the District-8 homicide office, Frank prioritized his tasks. Kenyon Miller had gone to get coffee and David Cho was out working a case. Which was what he should be doing, working cases: a fifteen-year-old witness murdered by the drug dealer she was scheduled to testify against; a prostitute stabbed by a deranged john; three little kids thrown off the roof of a project by their junkie father. Just three of the deadly felons roaming the streets of New Orleans, mindless idiots who'd kill a convenience store clerk for sixty bucks.
The list Gates had given him sat on his desk. He'd already talked to the housekeeper who had confirmed Gates's story. Gates had asked her to babysit Saturday night but had called and canceled at the last minute. Canvassing the neighbors could wait. He wanted to talk to Donna's ex-husband.
He had already tracked him down. Nick Roberts still lived in Miami and worked for Worldwide Investments. He punched in the number.
After two rings, a voice said, “Nick Roberts.”
“Hi, Mr. Roberts. This is Detective Frank Renzi, New Orleans Police Department. I've got a few questions for you.”
“About what? I've never been to New Orleans.”
Strange, considering his son lived here. At least Roberts wasn't worrying about parking tickets like Gates. “About your son. I understand he lives here with your ex-wife, Donna Gates.”
“Robbie lives with her, but he's not my son.”
Stunned, Frank sat there, speechless. In the course of his many homicide investigations, he'd run into some weird situations, but nothing like this. “Whose son is he?”
Roberts laughed, an ugly grating sound. “Good question. One I can't answer.”
“Donna was married to you when Robbie was born in Miami, right?”
“Yes. Look, I've got a lot of work to do—”
“And I've got a lot of questions. Your son is missing.”
“He's not my son! I just told you that.”
“Where were you last Saturday night?”
Roberts brayed another laugh. “You think I took him? I didn't. I haven't seen him since he was fifteen months old. You need to talk to my attorney. The divorce settlement stipulates that I'm not allowed to discuss this.”
“Okay, give me his name and phone number.”
“Attorney Bart Lambert. Hold on while I get the number.” Moments later, he rattled off a number and said, “Call Bart. He'll tell you all about it.”
“Thanks, I will. Where were you last Saturday night?”
“I went to a movie. Red, with Bruce Willis and Morgan Freeman. Want me to tell you about it?”
Giving him attitude now. “Anyone with you?
“Yes, my girlfriend.”
“What did you do on Sunday?”
“Went to Sun Life Stadium with some friends. The Dolphins were playing the Pittsburgh Steelers. We lost, unfortunately. By one point. After the game, we went out for drinks and dinner, didn't get home until midnight. And now it's Monday morning and I've got work to do.”
“Okay. Thanks for your cooperation.” Such as it was. “If I need to corroborate your whereabouts last weekend, I'll get back to you.”
“Fine,” Roberts said, and hung up.
Frank replaced the receiver and scratched his chin, wondering where this was going.
Kenyon Miller ambled into the office with two coffee containers, put one on Frank's desk, the other on his own. “What's up, Frank? You look like somebody cold-cocked you.”
“Thanks for the coffee. And you're right. Somebody just hit me with a shocker.”
An imposing black man with a shaven pate and a soul patch under his bottom lip, Kenyon stood six-foot-six, weighed two-forty. He'd never played pro football, but he'd been a standout player at Louisiana State University. Frank loved working with him. He had a droll sense of humor, and he knew when to bend the rules, a savvy veteran detective equally comfortable dealing with gangbangers and grieving families who'd lost loved ones.
Kenyon sank onto his swivel chair and said, “Lay it on me.”
After Frank filled him in on the case, Kenyon said, “Hoo-ee. Hunter Gates? He's a snake.”
“Yeah? You know him?”
Kenyon sipped his coffee and nodded. “Met him at a meeting of the Black Neighborhood Association. He was looking for votes when he ran for city council. What's the shocker?”
“I just talked to Donna's first husband. I assumed Robbie was his son, but he says no. When I asked who the father was, he said he couldn't talk about it, told me to call his lawyer.”
“Well, get on it, man. Made for TV drama like that? I want the juicy details.”
Frank grinned. “Yes, sir, Detective Miller. Your wish is my command.”
Kenyon cackled a laugh and leaned back in his chair, watching him. Frank got on the phone and called the lawyer. His secretary answered and Frank went through the usual rigmarole, told her who he was and what he wanted.
To his surprise, the attorney picked up right away. “Bart Lambert. How can I help you, Detective Renzi?”
“I'm hoping you can tell me about Robbie Roberts.”
“In relation to what?”
“He lives with his mother here in New Orleans. Currently, both of them are missing.”
After a short silence, Lambert said, “I see. Well, first of all, the boy's name is Robbie Lee, not Roberts. My client requested the name change as part of the divorce settlement.”
“Why?”
“He's not the father. We took DNA samples from the boy and from Nick and ran a paternity test. Nick is not Robbie's father.”
“Not his father,” Frank said, for Miller's benefit. “Who is?”
“The only way to identify the biological fa
ther would be to compare the boy's DNA to the actual father. Ask Donna. She wasn't giving us any names.”
“What were the grounds?” Frank asked. “Adultery?” He'd been through that ordeal himself, though not over his daughter's paternity.
“No,” Lambert said. “Irretrievable breakdown. I can't get into specifics, but my client refused to support the boy, and since Donna had a college degree and significant job skills, he saw no reason to pay alimony, either. In return, he agreed to keep quiet about the paternity issue. The documents were sealed at Donna's request, and this conversation is privileged, Detective Renzi. You can't reveal what I just told you.”
“I won't,” Frank said. Not to anyone outside NOPD anyway.
“Any idea what happened to the boy?” Lambert asked. “And his mother?”
“Not at this point, no.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. You have my number. Call me if you need more information.”
Frank put down the phone and said to Miller, “Long story short, a paternity test determined Roberts isn't the father. No child support or alimony, divorce settlement sealed at Donna's request.”
Kenyon frowned. “So he never sees the kid?”
“Not since he was fifteen months old.”
“That's cold, man. I mean, the child came home from the hospital, you know, he probably held him in his arms, sang him a lullaby to put him to sleep.”
“Yes, it is,” Frank said. “I wonder if Gates knows.”
“Man,” Kenyon said, “this raises all kinds of questions.”
“It sure does. Nick Roberts appears to have a solid alibi. But he could have hired someone else to snatch them.”
Kenyon grimaced. “Gates could have, too. He's got plenty of bucks. On the other hand, this could be a straight kidnapping for money.”
“Either way, I'm worried.” Frank fingered the scar on his chin. “Thirty-six hours they've been gone, and you know how it goes. The longer they're gone, the more likely it is they wind up dead.”
CHAPTER 9
MONDAY – 3:25 PM
This time when Gates opened the door he seemed euphoric, smiling as he exclaimed, “They're alive, Frank! They sent photographs with the email. Emily, Donna and Robbie holding today's Times-Picayune. Come in the dining room and I'll show you.”
Gates's laptop was open on the table and a photograph filled the screen. Emily beaming a smile at the camera, holding a newspaper under her chin with both hands. The front page of the Times-Picayune with today's date. Gates opened the other photos. Robbie holding the same paper, but he wasn't smiling. Nor was Donna.
Relieved, Frank said, “That's good news. Show me the note.”
Gates opened the email and Frank studied the message.
Leave the money in a suitcase behind the Circle-K on Esplanade Avenue. Pick up the wife and kids at Winn-Dixie on Airline Drive in Metairie. NO COPS! We'll be watching.
Aware that Gates was watching him, Frank tried not to reveal his misgivings. He didn't like the setup. Put a million bucks in a suitcase, leave it somewhere, drive five or six miles to another location and hope your wife and kids are there. Alive. “Hunter, I can't let you do this by yourself. My boss will never allow it.”
Gates turned on him, his cheeks mottled with anger. “What the fuck does that mean? You can't stop me! This is my family we're talking about.”
“I understand that. But you can't be in two places at once. Drop the money on Esplanade and pick up your family in Metairie. You need help. My partner and I can monitor the drop—”
“No! What if they see you?”
“They won't. We've got vehicles that blend in with the surroundings. Esplanade is four-lanes wide with a neutral ground in the middle. We'll park across the street from the Circle-K. Same thing at Winn-Dixie. Put two detectives in a delivery van, the kidnappers will never know they're there.”
He waited, fingering the scar on his chin, a habitual gesture when he was under stress.
Conflicting emotions rippled over Gates's face. Anger, but also uncertainty. If Gates was complicit in this, he had good acting skills. Clearly fighting for control, Gates clenched his jaw. “No cops they said. If they see you and something happens to Emily ...”
Frank said nothing. Gates seemed concerned about Emily, but not about Donna. Or Robbie, who wasn't his son. Gates could have sent the emails from a spoofed address to make it look like someone else sent them. But Frank couldn't dismiss the possibility that kidnappers had sent them. One fact was indisputable: Donna and her two kids were missing.
“I'm worried about your family, too. So is my boss. You asked us not to call the FBI, so we didn't.” Hoping persuasion would work, he said, “Let us help you, Hunter. Let's get the kids home where they belong.”
Gates gave him a menacing stare, his eyes cold. “Okay. But if you screw this up—”
“What about the money? A million in cash is a lot to carry.”
“It's already in a suitcase, ready to go.” Gates took a deep breath, puffed his cheeks and blew a stream of air. “The hardest part is the waiting.”
His distress seemed genuine. “Keep busy,” Frank suggested. “Go to your office and do some work to take your mind off things, maybe get in some practice at the shooting range.”
Gates heaved a sigh. “Thanks, Frank. I know you're trying to help.”
“My partner and I will come back at eleven o'clock and lay out the whole plan for you. Who's going to be where, the vehicles, everything.”
“Okay,” Gates said, his pale blue eyes cold as ice again. “See you tonight.”
Frank left the house and got in his car. Gates was like a chameleon with ever-shifting moods, jubilant one minute, angry the next. Grateful for words of support, then cold as an Arctic iceberg.
A force to be reckoned with if anyone crossed him.
_____
Twenty minutes later Frank was in Vobitch's office at the station. When he spelled out the ransom demand, Vobitch said, “Christ! Midnight tonight? That doesn't give us much time to set up. What's the plan?”
“I want Kenyon to cover the drop with me in the surveillance van. We need another team at Winn-Dixie to confirm that the hostages are okay. We can't use the radio handsets. Too many people monitor the police frequency on scanners. But we can use the electronics equipment in the van to stay in contact with them.”
“Put me in the loop, too,” Vobitch said. “I'll monitor things from home. What if the bagman has a car? Tail him in the surveillance van, you'll be conspicuous.”
“How about we put another team in an unmarked north of the Circle-K on Esplanade? If the bagman grabs the suitcase and takes off in a car, I can tell them what car he's driving. They follow the bagman's car, Kenyon and I follow the unmarked in the van.”
Vobitch tapped his pen on a yellow legal pad, then tossed the pen on his desk. “I don't like the sound of this. You really think the kidnappers are gonna drop off the wife and kids at Winn-Dixie? Scumbags like this might not be the brightest bulbs in the chandelier, but they must know that would be dangerous. The wife could identify the kidnapper's car. Hell, anything could happen.”
“You got a better idea?”
Vobitch flashed his evil smile and brushed his hands, like he was wiping away a problem, no muss, no fuss. “Let Gates fend for himself. Things go wrong he comes crawling to us.” Vobitch leaned forward set his elbows on the desk, sober-faced now. “We won't, of course. Our first priority is getting his wife and kids back. But it would be nice to catch the bad guys, too. Especially if Gates is involved.”
“You get no argument from me,” Frank said. “I'm in the surveillance van with Kenyon. Who else do we use?”
“Let's confine it to my detectives in D-8 and D-5. You and Kenyon in the surveillance van, David Cho and Herb Chandler can set up at Winn-Dixie. I'll put Lester Brown and Michael White in the unmarked on Esplanade. Brown knows how to do a tail without getting spotted.”
“Works for me,” Frank said, rising from his chair. “
I'll go tell Kenyon.”
And keep my fingers crossed that everything goes as planned.
_____
7: 35 PM
Oh, the shark, babe … has such teeth, dear … And it shows them … pearly white.
Rose hummed her lucky song, hoping it would bring Darin to the hospital to see her. She wished she had her rosary to pass the time. She liked the feel of it, running her fingers over the smooth, black beads. In her haste to pack for the hospital, she had left the rosary on her bureau.
An old woman with a wrinkled face and missing teeth that left gaps in her smile had given it to her one Sunday after Mass. “Welcome to New Orleans,” she'd said in English with a sing-song Vietnamese accent that made it seem less foreign. But the Mass was foreign to Rose. She was still woozy from the incense, the priest swinging a big brass container, spicy-smelling smoke swirling out at her. In Saigon, Ma never took her to church. Didn't like going to church here either, but they went to show politeness to the family that hosted them.
The next Sunday, the old woman—Rose no longer remembered her name, just her wrinkles and missing teeth—had given her a silver cross to go with the rosary. Smiling as she turned it over to show her the engraving on the cross-bar. ROSE 1975.
Pointing to the Vietnamese characters on the vertical part of the cross, the old woman said in English, “Good fortune shall come to you.” The woman told her to say her prayers every night at bedtime and God would take care of her. Rose didn't know any prayers and Ma stopped taking her to church when they got their own apartment. But she'd kept the cross and the rosary beads.
Had the cross brought her good fortune? Not money certainly, but she had a wonderful son.
The door to her room opened and Rose smiled. Just thinking about the cross had brought her good fortune, Darin striding across the room now. She adored his handsome half-American face, dark Asian eyes like hers, a straight nose and thin lips. Like his father maybe. His shiny black hair was like hers, but tied back in a ponytail.
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “How you feeling today, Ma?”