by Susan Fleet
Using the cheap binoculars he’d bought at Walmart, he studied the parking lot. It was half the size of a football field, brightly illuminated by halogen lights on tall poles. No cars in the lot, but ten minutes ago a white security cart driven by a uniformed guard had come around the corner of a building and circled the parking lot.
That made him nervous. He lighted a Newport Menthol and checked his watch. 11:58. His heart thrummed his chest. Two minutes from now Gates would drop off a suitcase with a million bucks behind the Circle-K on Esplanade. If he knew what was good for him.
If he didn't, he would regret it.
Darin puffed his cigarette, recalling his original scheme. Nine months ago, the first time they admitted his mother to the hospital for her failing liver, he had written Gates a letter, printing it in block letters so no one could identify his handwriting.
Dear Hunter, I remember our times together with great joy, but now I am very ill. I need a liver transplant, but the transplant list is very long. Now that you are a prosperous and wealthy man, perhaps you could pay for it. It will cost one million dollars. With great affection …
He had taken it to the hospital and asked his mother to sign it. Drowsy from the drugs they'd given her, she signed her name. Rose Thanh. Jesus! He'd forgotten to tell her to sign only her first name. If he sent it to Gates, the prick might call the cops, and the cops would track him down and charge him with extortion. That was his first plan, a half-assed one at that.
He'd kissed his mother's cheek and stormed outside to have a cigarette.
Like a gift from the gods, a new possibility arose.
Sam was out there smoking a cheap Best Buy, pissing and moaning about his kid's medical bills, Darin agreeing, saying hospitals didn't give a shit about families, soaking patients for every pill. After Sam told him where he worked, Darin said nothing, just puffed his Newport Menthol, acting nonchalant. Then, like it was an afterthought, he'd told Sam he had a scheme that would make them a lot of money. Reeled him in like a catfish.
He took another drag on his Newport Menthol. This plan was brilliant, way better than the first one. He checked the time and his heart fluttered.
A minute from now Gates would drop off the suitcase.
He took out his pager. Sweets didn't have his cellphone number. Nobody did, not even Sam. Sweets would page him after he picked up the suitcase. Then he'd call Sweets and tell him to get his ass up to the Delgardo parking lot.
How long could that take? Ten minutes? Fifteen?
Darin pumped his fist.
Ten or fifteen minutes from now he'd be a millionaire!
CHAPTER 13
12:01 AM
Frank was ready to explode. Willing Gates to appear, he raised the binoculars and studied the dumpster behind the Circle-K. Dauphine Street was deserted. No sign of Gates.
He lowered his arm and spoke into the wrist mic. “Amy, any action?”
“Nothing doing here,” David Cho said, his voice edged with tension. “No sign of The Package. The last person left the store five minutes ago. They just dimmed the store lights.”
“Roger that, Amy. Notify immediately if anything changes.” Frank put the binoculars in his lap, flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders to ease the tension in his neck.
He checked his watch again. 12:02. Damn! Gates was late.
A Jeep Cherokee roared past the surveillance van headed south on Esplanade. The Jeep's windows were wide open and music boomed from the speakers, a thumping bass beat.
“Male customer just left the store,” Kenyon said softly.
“Shit,” Frank muttered. “Which way did he go?”
“Hold on.” Then, “Walking north on Esplanade. No worries.”
No worries? Like hell. Gates should have been here two minutes ago. Frank raised the binoculars and studied the street beside the Circle-K.
And breathed a sigh of relief.
A black Mercedes-Benz SUV was coming down Dauphine. Immaculately waxed and polished, the SUV slowed and stopped beside the dumpster. Gates pushed open his door, planted his feet on the pavement, got out and slammed the door shut. And stood there, not moving.
Frank gritted his teeth. Drop the fucking suitcase and get out of there.
Gates walked around the hood of the SUV. Illuminated by the headlights, he looked like he was going to a business meeting, dressed in a spiffy dark suit, Ralph Lauren, probably. Ramrod stiff as an Army Colonel, he looked around, eyeballing Dauphine Street. Then he turned and stared across the neutral ground, looked like he was trying to spot the surveillance van.
Frank wanted to scream. Drop the suitcase, get in the damn car and leave!
Gates circled the SUV, opened the hatchback and hauled out the suitcase. Taking his time, he deliberately strode to the dumpster. Set the suitcase down. Returned to his SUV. Stood there.
Frank watched him, his chest tight with anxiety. Don't do something stupid. Drive away!
At last Gates opened the door and climbed behind the wheel of the SUV. Frank didn't relax until the SUV swung right onto Esplanade and took off, headed north. At least Gates wasn't going to pull a gun on the kidnapper when he picked up the suitcase.
But the next few minutes were crucial. He got on the mic. “Darth Vader dropped The Prize. Waiting for the pickup.”
Conscious of the passing seconds, Frank clenched his teeth. He hated waiting. Hated being at the mercy of other people. Gates. The kidnappers. And now the bagman.
Kenyon rolled down his window as a powder-blue Mustang pulled up beside the Circle-K dumpster and stopped. It sat there for several seconds, exhaust pooling around its rear wheels, the noisy muffler audible fifty yards away inside the van.
Frank eyeballed the street beyond the dumpster. No pedestrians. No cars. No stray dogs.
The door of the Mustang opened and the driver got out, a young black kid, short legs and a pear-shaped body, looking around now, tense and wary.
“You got him?” Kenyon muttered.
“Yes,” he said, training the binoculars on the kid.
After what seemed like an eternity, the kid strolled to the suitcase beside the dumpster and did a three-sixty, eyeballing his surroundings.
He looked like a gangbanger, had on a baggy white T-shirt, scruffy jeans, and black running shoes. The kid picked up the suitcase, lugged it to the Mustang and opened the trunk. Hoisted the suitcase inside. Shut the trunk. Then he jumped in the Mustang and shut the door.
Frank heard the door slam, a faint muffled sound, and waited tensely to see what the kid would do.
The Mustang pulled forward, its headlights off, turned north on Esplanade and accelerated, emitting a rumble from the exhaust system.
“Bogart,” Frank said into his mic. “BOLO a powder-blue Mustang with no headlights and a noisy muffler headed your way. Follow it, but don’t get too close. We don't want to scare him, have him think you're a cop looking to stop him.”
“Roger that,” said Michael White. And then, “We hear him. Headlights are on. We'll give him some space and follow.”
“Copy,” Frank said. “Amy, any action?”
“Negative,” said David Cho, sounding anxious. “Nothing doing here. No sign of The Package.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “Notify if that changes. Time for Plan B.”
Their doomsday scenario.
If the kidnappers don't release the hostages, follow the money, grab the bagman and try to find out where Donna and the kids were.
“No sign of the hostages?” Kenyon asked.
“No. Gates just dropped off a million bucks for nothing. We better follow the money. Back up and swing through the median so we can follow Bogart.”
Kenyon cranked the engine, backed up and took the U-turn onto Esplanade heading north.
Frank tried not to think about what would happen if Plan B failed.
Lose the bagman, they might never find Donna and Robbie and Emily. And if they lost the money, Frank and Vobitch would pay dearly for it.
One
phone call from Gates to the NOPD Superintendent and Frank would be minus his detective shield, pounding a beat.
The worst one, probably, patrolling Bourbon Street from seven PM till dawn, dealing with pickpockets and drunken tourists, smelling puke from college kids who'd downed too many Hurricanes.
Hell, Gates might even go for a two-fer. Tell the Super to cut Vobitch's position and give him Frank's job.
_____
12:11 AM
Darin puffed his Newport Menthol. When Sweets paged him a while ago, his heart had started jumping around inside his chest like a monkey in a barrel full of bananas. But when he called the idiot's cellphone, Sweets had given him a hard time. “I got the suitcase,” Sweets said. “Man, it's heavy. What's in it?”
“Did you put it in the trunk?”
“Yo, man, you tell me to put it in the trunk, I put it in the trunk. What's in it?”
Annoyed, Darin had said, “Only thing you need to know is, you open it, you're dead. Drive to Delgardo like I told you.”
Fine, but the wait was killing him. No traffic on a Monday night. Where the hell was Sweets? Farting along in his Mustang, probably, because he'd warned the idiot not to attract attention.
He took a last drag on the cigarette, flipped the butt out the window and spotted the powder-blue Mustang tooling down City Park Avenue. Christ, he could hear it from here, woofing like a water buffalo, the muffler shot, the exhaust pipe full of holes. If a cop heard it, he might stop him, and Sweets, the dolt, might smart-mouth the cop.
Drive the fucking car in the parking lot and shut off the motor.
He watched Sweets drive into the Delgardo Community College complex and park in the lot. But he wasn't about to rush over there.
Twice he'd told Gates, no cops. But Mr. Important owned Hunter Firearms. He wanted to give the orders, not follow them.
Darin raised his binoculars and trained them on the Mustang.
_____
Angry and frustrated beyond belief, Frank clenched his jaw as Kenyon followed the Bogart team north on Esplanade Avenue, keeping several cars between the van and the unmarked. At least they knew where the money was. But where were the hostages? And the kidnappers.
Frank doubted the black kid was one of them. The kid was the bagman, probably didn't even know what was in the suitcase.
He got on his wrist mic. “Amy. Any sign of the Package?”
“Negative.” David Cho's swift response.
“Okay, tell me immediately when Darth Vader arrives.”
“Roger that,” Cho said.
“Bogart,” Frank said. “Where's the Prize?
“On City Park Avenue,” said Michael White. “Hold on. It just took a right and drove into the Delgado Community College parking lot.”
“Delgardo might be a secondary drop. Don't follow him into the lot. Do a U-turn and park on the other side of City Park Avenue. Do nothing till you hear from me.”
“Roger that,” said White.
“We'll be there in a couple of minutes,” Kenyon said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Park on the street before we get to the entrance. We'll need to follow two cars. Bogart can tail the pickup car if it heads east. If it goes west, we follow it. The other team grabs the bagman.”
“Damn,” Kenyon said. “This sucks. Where the hell are the hostages?”
“No telling,” Frank muttered.
Then David Cho spoke into his headset. “Cupid, Darth Vader just drove into the parking lot. Approaching our vehicle. Any instructions?”
His gut clenched. “No sign of the Package?”
“None.”
Frank puffed his cheeks and blew a stream of air. Gates would be furious. Leave a million bucks behind the Circle-K and his family's still missing? Beyond furious. Into the mic, Frank said, “He's gonna be pissed, so handle him with kid gloves. Tell him we're following The Prize.”
“Roger that,” said Cho.
Frank covered the mic with his hand and said to Kenyon, “This is a fucking nightmare. No sign of the hostages and Gates just drove into the Winn-Dixie parking lot.”
CHAPTER 14
TUESDAY – 12:16 AM
Resisting the urge to light another cigarette, Darin picked up his binoculars and studied the Mustang in the Delgardo parking lot. No sign of cops, but he didn't trust Gates.
A million bucks was in the trunk of the Mustang, as tempting as a line of coke on his kitchen counter. He wanted to go get it, but he didn't want any cops coming out of nowhere to grab him when he did.
Sweets was pacing back and forth beside his Mustang, conspicuous as hell in his jeans and baggy white T-shirt. The idiot had parked under a light pole, the halogen bulb spotlighting his powder-blue Mustang. Sweets stopped pacing and stared at City Park Avenue, a big frown on his dark chubby face now, looking for Darin's van probably.
At this time of night traffic was light on City Park Avenue. A few cars had driven past the college, but none of them slowed down, just sped past the campus.
Darin lowered the binoculars. How long should he wait?
He smiled, thinking of the alert radio stations broadcast from time to time. This is a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System. This is only a test ….”
Well, this was his test. Way more important than some fucking radio alert. No cops, he'd told Gates. Twice. Gates was probably at the Winn-Dixie now, expecting to collect his wife and kids.
He was in for a surprise.
Darin raised the binoculars and zoomed in on Sweets. Now the idiot was eating something, a Ring Ding or a Devil Dog, he couldn't tell which. Sweets didn't smoke, said he was afraid he'd get cancer, sucked up his weed from a bong. He used sugar to settle his nerves, ate so many Ring Dings and Hostess Cupcakes, he'd probably be diabetic before he hit thirty.
Darin lowered the binoculars and saw a dark two-door sedan drive past the college headed west on City Park Avenue. No markings on the car. Two men in the front seat dressed in dark clothes.
His neck prickled. Cops.
He watched tensely as the sedan disappeared off to his left.
If they were cops, what if they parked on City Park Avenue where he couldn't see them? How long would they wait?
Fuck! If they'd seen Sweets pick up the suitcase behind the Circle-K, they had to know what was in it. Christ, they'd wait forever.
And if they knew about the drop at the Circle-K, they also knew Gates was supposed to pick up his fucking family at Winn-Dixie.
Not tonight he wasn't.
To calm himself, he lighted a Newport Menthol and blew smoke out the window. Maybe he was imagining things.
Maybe the men in the dark sedan weren't cops.
He'd wait a few more minutes just to make sure.
_____
Two blocks before they reached the Delgardo entrance, Frank spotted a vacant space ahead them on City Park Avenue and said to Kenyon, “Grab that spot. I'll monitor the Mustang from there.”
Kenyon jockeyed the van into the space beside a huge oak tree in front of a two-story house. No lights on the first floor, but the windows on the second floor were ablaze with lights.
Frank wiped sweat off his face, lowered his window and trained his binoculars on the powder-blue Mustang, the only car in the parking lot. The car with a million bucks in the trunk. At least it was parked someplace where they could watch it.
“You okay with the sight-line?” Kenyon asked.
“Yes. I don't think this kid is one of the kidnappers. They probably set this up as a secondary drop. Isolate the kid in an open space to make sure no cops grab him.”
“Probably waiting somewhere near here, watching,” Kenyon said.
“One of them, anyway. The other one probably won't drop Donna and the kids at Winn-Dixie until the leader calls and tells him he's got the money. I better check the troops.”
He raised the wrist mic to his mouth. “Amy. Still no Package?”
“Correct,” came David Cho's rapid response.
“Any pr
oblems with Darth Vader?”
“He's parked beside us in his SUV. Definitely not happy. He wants you to call him. You want me to tell him—”
“Don't tell him anything,” Frank snapped. For all he knew, Gates was using this deal as a smokescreen and Donna was already dead. His chest tightened. What about Robbie and Emily? Were they dead, too?
“Bogart,” he said, “where are you?”
“Parked on the eastbound side of City Park Avenue,” Michael White said. “Fifty yards west of the Delgardo entrance. We have the subject in sight.”
The subject being the black kid who'd picked up the suitcase.
“Good. Proceed with Plan B. Nobody moves until I say so. Out.”
Exhausted, he sank back in his seat and massaged his forehead. The tension was getting to him, his head throbbing, his gut tight, his eyes burning from peering through the binoculars.
“We grab the kidnapper,” Kenyon said, “maybe he'll tell us where Donna and the kids are.”
“Let's hope so,” Frank said. But he wasn't counting on it.
He figured the leader would pick up the money. If they grabbed him, he might deny everything, stonewall them about Donna and the kids. If they were still alive. No telling what the other kidnapper would do if he didn't hear from the leader.
He wanted to bring Donna and the kids home tonight, safe and sound. But he had a bad feeling about this, a nagging sensation in his gut that wouldn't go away. One thing was certain. They had to recover the money.
If Gates didn't get his family back, he'd go ballistic, be twice as pissed if he lost a million bucks.
He used the binoculars to zoom in on the black kid. Now the kid was pacing around the Mustang, eating something. Jesus! No way did this kid know what was in the suitcase. He lowered the binoculars and turned, about to speak to Lucien in the rear compartment.
Kenyon grabbed his arm and said in an urgent voice, “Security vehicle!”