by Susan Fleet
Frank raised the glasses and saw a white snub-nosed cart approaching the Mustang. It resembled a Smart Car but taller, with big windows in both doors. On the windshield above the hood big white letters said SECURITY. The headlights were lit but the roof-mounted strobe light wasn't. Only one person inside the vehicle, the college security guard, Frank assumed.
“Fuck,” he muttered, and got on his mic. “We got trouble.”
What happened next took maybe ten seconds. Agonizing seconds.
The kid dropped whatever he was eating, ran to the Mustang, yanked open the door and jumped behind the wheel. The guard got out of the security cart and slowly approached the Mustang. No weapon, but he held a large metal flashlight in his right hand.
“Bogart!” Frank yelled into his mic. “Go, go go! Take him now.”
“Damn!” Kenyon exclaimed.
Frank heard the tires of the unmarked shriek as the car peeled out of its parking space. The unmarked jumped the curb of the neutral ground, bounced onto the westbound lane of City Park Avenue and barreled up the entry road to the Delgardo parking lot, lights flashing.
“Bogart!” Frank said. “Don't let the guard talk to him, not a word or we're fucked! Tell the guard NOPD has a warrant for the kid. Frisk him, cuff him and put him in your car.”
His heart pounded as he watched the action with the binoculars.
The guard saw the flashing lights on the unmarked and stopped walking.
Michael White jumped out of the unmarked, his weapon drawn. He ran to the Mustang, yanked open the door, grabbed the black kid and hauled him out of the car.
Lester Brown was talking to the security guard but keeping a wary eye on the action ten yards away at the Mustang.
Michael White muscled the kid against the hood and frisked him, talking to him now. Frank couldn't hear what the kid said, but he could see the terror on his face, eyes wide, mouth open.
“Jesus,” Kenyon said. “Close call.”
“Too fucking close. Any chance we had of grabbing the kidnapper just went down the toilet.”
“You want me to pull in the parking lot?”
“Yes. We need to make nice with the security guard and take charge of the Mustang to make sure nothing happens to the money.”
Frank turned to Lucien, who'd heard the action on his headset, but couldn't see anything from the rear compartment.
“Get a tow truck over here ASAP,” Frank said. “Have them tow the Mustang to the D-8 station. Get your camcorder ready. We need to preserve the chain of evidence.”
_____
When Darin saw the security cart come around the corner of the building, he almost shit his pants. “Damn it to fucking hell!”
He clenched his fists as Sweets bolted around the Mustang, opened the door and jumped inside. The idiot didn't have the brains of a cockroach. Didn't have the balls either. What the fuck was he thinking?
All he had to do was feed the security dufus a line of bullshit, tell him he hadda take a piss, couldn't hold it till he got home. Christ on a crutch! The suitcase was in the trunk and the security guard had no reason to open it. Sweets was clean.
Wait. Where was the baggie with the coke?
Motherfucker!
“Swallow it, you dumb fuck,” Darin said through clenched teeth.
And then everything turned to shit.
The dark sedan he'd seen earlier shot across City Park Avenue, lights flashing, flew up the road to the parking lot, had to be going ninety, and came to a screeching halt at the Mustang.
Darin clenched his fists. Fuck! Cops.
Two men in dark clothes jumped out of the sedan, guns drawn. One ran to the Mustang. The other one was talking to the security guard. Darin could see their mouths going. The first cop dragged Sweets out of the car, put him up against the hood and frisked him.
Sonofabitch! The cops had Sweets. If the little shit ratted him out, he'd kill him.
But the test told him one thing. Gates had called the cops.
Another betrayal.
Gates would pay for this, big time.
CHAPTER 15
TUESDAY – 1:05 AM
Sam heard a car door slam and jumped up off the futon, eyeing the door as footsteps pounded up the front steps. An hour ago Darin was supposed to pick up the ransom. He hoped it went okay. If it didn't, he'd hear about it soon enough. The door opened and Darin stalked into the living room.
“How'd it go?” he said cautiously, already knew something was wrong, Darin's eyes glittery with rage.
“The fucker called the cops! My guy picks up the suitcase, drives to Delgardo like I told him, and the cops jump him. Jesus Christ! I told the fucker not to call the cops!”
“Keep it down,” Sam said. “You'll wake up the hostages.”
Darin gave him a dirty look and went in the kitchen. Sam stood in the doorway, watching him, his heart going a hundred miles an hour. Jesus! The cops knew about the kidnapping!
Darin took a can of Budweiser out of the fridge, popped the tab and guzzled some.
“Tell me what happened,” Sam said quietly.
Darin didn't answer, pulled a baggie out of his pocket, took a deck of cards out of a drawer and laid out a line of coke. Great. The drop goes bad and Darin, twenty-four-going-on-twelve, decides to snort some coke, which would only fuel his rage.
Sam went back in the living room and sat on the futon, his gut churning with acid.
Two minutes later Darin came in and perched on the futon, his pupils like BBs, his movements jerky as he chugged some beer and fired up a cigarette.
Afraid to ask, but needing to know, Sam said, “Tell me what happened.”
“What I said. Gates dropped off the suitcase, the kid picked it up and drove to Delgardo. But a security guard came around the building in one of those fucking go-carts. Then two cops drove up in an unmarked car, lights flashing, and grabbed the kid.”
Sam took a deep breath, then another, trying to quiet his racing heart. “What if he talks?”
“He won't. I told him if he talked, he's a dead man.”
Sam wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. “We better drop the hostages off somewhere and—”
“We're not dropping them anywhere till we get the money.”
“What about the suitcase? Did the cops find the money?”
Darin looked at him like he was an idiot. “You think I waited around to find out? Of course they did. They must have seen him pick up the suitcase. They knew everything. Gates called the cops.”
Sam sat there, his heart pounding his chest, the enormity of the disaster blitzing his mind. “We better release the hostages. This is too dangerous—”
“Dangerous?” Darin said, his voice shrill with anger. “Dealing with cops is what's dangerous! I'll send him another email, tell him he fucked up by calling the cops. This time we ask for the big bucks.”
“What if the kid talks?”
“He doesn't know anything, for Chrissake.”
“He knows your name, doesn't he?”
“No.” Darin chugged some beer. “I know how to handle this. Go home and go to bed. When you go to work tomorrow, ask around the station and find out what they're doing.”
Knowing it was useless to argue, Sam took out his car keys and left.
_____
Frank and Kenyon stood at the one-way window outside the interview room watching the black kid, hunched in a chair with his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. Michael White had bagged and tagged the baggie of coke he'd found in the kid's pocket.
“Roll tape,” Frank said. “We need to squeeze him for information.”
“Squeeze him hard,” Kenyon said, and hit the Record button on the video camcorder. When they entered the room, the kid looked up, his eyes wary. He appeared to be in his late teens or early twenties, short and squat, his round moon-face set on a thick neck.
Frank took the chair opposite the kid. Kenyon sat beside him.
“Show us your license,” Frank said.
“Ain't got no license.”
“Driving without a license,” he said. “There's trouble, right there.”
“Got one at home, forgot to bring it with me.”
“What's your name?”
The kid gave him an aggrieved look, as though asking for his name was an affront. They waited him out, the kid finally saying, “Sweets.”
Frank glanced at Kenyon, got back a dead-eyed stare.
“What's in the suitcase?” Frank asked.
“What suitcase?”
“The one in the trunk of your noisy Mustang. The one you picked up behind the Circle-K.”
“Aw, man, I dunno what's in it. Some guy asked me to pick it up for him so I did.”
“Who asked you? What's his name?”
The kid shrugged. “I don't know.”
“Stop bullshitting us,” Kenyon said. “Some guy asks you to pick up a suitcase, you don't know what's in it and you don't know his name?”
“I don't. Honest.” Giving them a wide-eyed stare.
“A white guy?” Frank said. “Black guy?”
“A white guy.”
“How old?”
Another shrug. “I dunno. Older than me.”
Irritated, Frank snapped, “How old are you?”
“Almost twenty. My birthday's next month.”
“Describe the guy,” Kenyon said. “Tall or short? Fat or thin?”
“Not too tall. Kinda thin.”
“You pick up the suitcase,” Frank said, “what's in it for you?”
Sweets ducked his head, stared at the table top, said nothing.
This could take all night, and Frank didn't have all night. “You want coffee, Sweets?”
“You got any Coke?”
Kenyon laughed, a low-pitched rumble. “You mean like the stuff we found in your pocket?”
The kid stuck out his lower lip, pouting now. “Something to drink. I'm thirsty.”
Frank gave Kenyon a look: Get him a drink.
Kenyon pushed back his chair and left the room. Frank checked the clock on the wall behind Sweets. 1:22. It had been a long night and it wasn't over yet. He still had to deal with Gates. After they got the Mustang squared away, he'd called Gates, who blew up at him. “You fucked up, Renzi! They knew I called the cops. That's why they didn't release my family.” Frank said he'd talk to him at the D-8 station, didn't mention he intended to grill the black kid first.
Kenyon came back and gave Sweets a can of Diet Coke, handed Frank a bottled water, sat down and opened his own bottled water. Sweets pulled the tab on his Diet Coke and chugged half the contents.
“What's in the suitcase?” Frank asked.
“I don't know. Tol' you that before.”
Frank wanted to grab him by the neck and shake him like a rat. But the videotape was rolling.
“Money,” he said. “Big bucks. How much were you getting?”
“I didn't know there was money in the suitcase!” the kid said, agitated, waving his hands.
“You were supposed to meet this guy at Delgado, right?”
“Yeah. But he never showed up.”
But he was watching. When he saw the cops, he took off and now they'd never find him. Or the hostages. Frank rose to his feet, leaned across the table and got in the kid's face. “Tell me his name!”
Sweets reeled back in his chair. “Don't know his name!”
“You're in big trouble. Start talking. How'd you meet him?”
“I'm walking along in the Quarter, minding my own business—”
“What did he look like?” Kenyon said.
Sweets licked his lips. Sipped some Diet Coke. “I don't remember.”
Kenyon slammed his fists on the table. “Stop wasting our time!”
Sweets jumped half out of his chair, looked like he wanted to bolt.
“Where were you when you talked to this guy?” Kenyon demanded.
“Tell you the truth, I was blitzed, had a couple Hurricanes at some bar. Don't remember which one.” Sweets smiled, showing his scummy teeth. “Watching the strippers.”
“So you come out of a strip joint,” Frank said, “meet some guy, but you don't know his name. You want us to cut you some slack on the coke possession charge? Give us something!”
“What color was his hair?” Kenyon asked.
“Dark hair. Kinda long and straggly.”
Great, that really narrows it down. Frank stifled a yawn. “What about his eyes?”
Sweets went very still, going inside himself like a turtle pulling into its shell. “Didn't look at 'em. Too scary. Afraid he'll put a hex on me.”
Frank didn't doubt it, might be the first honest words the kid had spoken, also had no doubt the kid had seen the guy before.
“Did he give you the coke?”
Sweets stared at the table, gnawing the cuticle on his thumb, his knee bouncing a frenetic rhythm.
“We already got you on a possession charge,” Frank said. “Enough coke in the baggie, we might upgrade it to possession with intent to sell. Did he give you the coke?”
The kid heaved a sigh. “Said he'd give me more when he picked up the suitcase. But he never showed and then you guys grabbed me.”
“What did you think was in the suitcase? Drugs?”
“Thought it mighta been, didn't know for sure. I axed him what’s in it, but he wouldn't tell me. Said not to open it, said if I did Mr. Black would kill me.”
“Who's Mr. Black?”
“The guy that dropped off the suitcase.”
Blank-faced, Frank sipped some water. When the subject deals you a surprise, never let him know he shocked you. Sweets had seen Gates drop off the suitcase but clearly hadn't recognized him. Why did the kidnapper tell him Gates was Mr. Black?
“What were you gonna do with the coke? Sell it or put it up your nose?”
“Man, I ain't no coke addict. Smoke a little weed maybe, can't afford no coke habit.”
“So you were going to sell it.”
Sweets shook his head, frowning. “You trying to trap me. I say yes, you got me for distribution.” Frank waited, letting the silence build. The kid squirmed in his chair, drops of sweat beading his forehead, half-moon sweat stains under the arms of his T-shirt.
Frank gave him his trust-me smile. Sweets gazed at him, eyes pleading. “Needed the money. My car's falling apart, muffler 'bout to fall off. That's the only reason I done it. And look where it got me!”
“We might forget the driving without a license charge,” he said. “Forget the intent to distribute, too. But not till you tell us about the guy who told you to pick up the suitcase. What's his name?”
Sweets wiped his sweaty forehead on the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Hangs out in the Quarter late at night. Guys wanna cop a little weed call him PT.”
“PT is his street name?” Kenyon said.
“Yeah. Cuz of his ponytail. Long and straggly, like I tole you. Black hair.”
Black hair in a ponytail. Not much, but it was something. Frank gave him the evil eye.
“That's all I know. Honest. Didn't know what's in the suitcase, don't wanna know.”
“Okay,” Frank said, “here's the deal. We forget the intent to distribute on one condition.” He took out his card and put it on the table. “You see this guy around—anywhere, any time—call me.”
The kid picked up the card. “Yes, sir, I will.”
Frank wouldn't bet on it, but one thing was clear. This kid had nothing to do with the kidnapping. Sweets knew they had him on the coke possession but he also knew the rule of the streets. No snitchin'. They wouldn't get anything more out of him tonight. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Okay, Sweets. But the possession charge isn't going away.”
Dejected, the kid slumped in his chair, not looking at them. Frank jerked his head at Kenyon and they left the room.
“Do me a favor,” Frank said. “Get him booked. I've got to talk to Gates.”
“Better you than me,” Kenyon said. “I'll take care of Sweets.�
�
When Frank entered the foyer Gates was waiting for him, standing beside the snack machine with his arms crossed, his expression stony. “You fucked up, Renzi. If they harm one hair on Emily's head, I will destroy you.”
Frank said nothing. Don't let him get to you. Lose your temper, he wins.
“We did the best we could,” he said evenly. “It's time to call in the FBI. Let them handle it.”
Gates smiled, but his eyes were cold. “I already did. They're upstairs in your boss's office.”
_____
Too frightened to sleep, Robbie paced the room. A while ago, he'd heard loud voices. Angry voices, the kidnappers arguing again. Even with his ear pressed to the door, he couldn't hear what they said. Except for one word. Dangerous.
Twice, he'd heard it. Dangerous. That scared him. What was dangerous? What were they afraid of?
He knew what he was afraid of. He was afraid they'd kill him.
And Mom. And Emily.
He went to the bureau and picked up the rosary and the silver cross. The woman had kept it a long time. Thirty-five years. Maybe it was her good luck charm. Maybe it would bring him luck, too. Lord knows he needed it.
He went to the bed, felt under the mattress and took out the diary of his kidnapping, the pages from the coloring book Donald Duck had given him. He wrapped the rosary and the cross inside them, folded the pages and stuck them in his pants pocket.
And heard footsteps in the hall outside his room.
His heart beat wildly inside his chest. He ran to the bed, curled up in a ball, shut his eyes tight and held his breath, waiting.
The door opened and the light came on.
“Get up, kid. We're going for a ride.”
Robbie knew which kidnapper it was. By now he knew their voices. The black guy had the deep voice. This was the shorter one, the mean guy in the Mickey Mouse mask.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to pretend he'd just woken up.
But when he looked at the kidnapper, his heart almost stopped.
Terrified, he stared at the man.
The kidnapper wasn't wearing his mask.
CHAPTER 16
TUESDAY – 1:55 AM