Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6

by Susan Fleet

  He was much nicer than Mickey Mouse.

  She got on the bed and jumped up and down, but it wasn't as much fun as the trampoline at her gymnastics studio. The mattress was flabby. A new word she'd learned at gymnastics class when Ms. Dellanuova said one of the other girls had a flabby stomach. When she asked what flabby meant, Ms. Dellanuova said it meant soft and squishy. Flabby was bad.

  When she jumped on the trampoline in gymnastics class, sometimes she got high enough to do a somersault, but she didn't dare try that here. She might fall off the bed and hurt herself.

  All she could do was jump up and down on this stupid bed with the flabby mattress. It sucked and she didn't like it one bit.

  Flailing her arms, she jumped up and down and screamed as loud as she could. “I want ice cream! I want ice cream!”

  In no time at all the door of her room opened.

  But it wasn't Donald Duck, it was Mickey Mouse.

  He ran over and grabbed her arm and pulled her off the bed. “Shut up or I'll make you wish you'd never been born.”

  “I want some ice cream,” she said.

  He jerked her arm and clamped a hand on her jaw and got in her face. She could see his eyes through the holes in the mask, angry eyes, worse than Cruella Deville's when she stole the Dalmatian puppies.

  But that was only a movie. Mickey Mouse was a real kidnapper and he stank of beer and his fingers were hurting her jaw.

  “If I hear you make another sound, you are dead. You hear me?”

  Afraid to speak, she nodded, her heart thumping her chest.

  “Get in bed and go to sleep.” He let go of her jaw, shoved her at the bed and left the room.

  She heard the lock click. Tears flooded her eyes. Now she was locked in this rotten little room and she couldn't get out. She wanted to go home and sleep in her own bed with her purple Barney and Tigger.

  Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped into her mouth, warm and salty. She got under the sheet and curled up in a ball, sobbing softly into the pillow.

  “Mommy,” she whimpered. “I want Mommy.”

  CHAPTER 19

  WEDNESDAY October 27 – 5:26 AM

  The trash man mopped sweat off his face with a towel, his dark skin as gray as ash in a barbecue pit. “'Bout tossed my cookies,” he said. “Hope you catch the sumbitch that did it.”

  Equally sickened by the brutal discovery, Frank said, “We will, you can take that to the bank. Tell me what happened when you got here.”

  The trash collector gathered himself, a husky black man in his fifties, gray flecks in his hair, an orange safety-vest strapped over his sweatshirt. “Parked there like always,” he said, gesturing at a large green dump truck idling in the street. “Get out and open the lid of the dumpster, I see this little hand sticking out of a trash bag. At first I thought some kid threw out a doll, you know, but when I looked closer, I could see it wasn't no doll. It's a kid's hand.”

  The man swallowed hard, his Adam's apple working. “So I hauled the trash bag out the dumpster and laid it on the ground. Thought I might be able to help him, you know, but when I saw the blood …. Gotta be sick in the head, do something like that to a little kid.” The man puffed his cheeks. “Anyways, then I ran around the corner to the Circle-K and told the clerk to call the cops.”

  “You did what you could,” Frank said. “You stayed with him until we got here, and I appreciate it.”

  “Least I could do. I got kids of my own.”

  “At some point you'll need to come to the District-8 station and make a statement, but I'll let you be on your way right now. I've got your name and phone number.”

  “You call me, I'll be there. Whatever it takes to get the bastard that done this.”

  “When did the trash get picked up here last?”

  About to climb in the truck, the trash man turned. “Monday round about this time. Esplanade Avenue, we pick up Monday, Wednesday and Saturday.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Frank said. “You've been a big help.”

  The man climbed in the truck, put it in gear, and the truck rumbled toward the corner. The NOPD cop posted at the corner waved him onto Esplanade, and the dump truck disappeared. At the opposite end of the block, another cop stood at the corner of Dauphine to block off the street. People would be going to work soon, and Frank didn't want them to see the body.

  Robbie's body, brutally beaten and dumped in a trash bin.

  He clenched his fists, pacing the sidewalk in the first light of dawn, fighting the fury that raged inside him. He wanted to take the killer’s neck in his bare hands and throttle him. The killer’s senseless act had snuffed out the life of a ten-year-old boy with his whole life ahead of him, a boy whose mother and grandmother adored him. They would be grief-stricken. Although he’d never met Robbie, an ocean of sadness welled up and his throat thickened.

  But he couldn't let his emotions distract him now. He had too much to do. He trotted to his unmarked, a steel-gray Dodge Charger parked by the hydrant in front of the Circle-K. A young NOPD officer stood on the sidewalk, yawning, shifting his feet to keep himself awake. No sign of tragedy here, no crime scene tape, no brutalized body of a little boy, just sleepy-eyed customers straggling into the store for their first hit of caffeine.

  Frank got in his Dodge, backed around the corner and stopped beside Robbie's body to shield it from prying eyes. The sky had lightened, ushering in a grim gray dawn. When he got out of the car, birds were chirping from a nearby tree, discordantly cheerful peeps that set his teeth on edge. Nobody in the windows of the houses across the street, but if anyone looked out now, they wouldn't see what lay in the alley behind the Circle-K.

  The alley was small, ten feet wide and twelve feet deep. At the far end, wind-blown plastic bags clung to a row of untrimmed hedges. On the right, a mangy-looking, four-foot-high dumpster stood beside a rusty chain-link fence. The detritus of urban life littered the pavement: cigarette butts, losing scratch tickets, broken beer bottles, crumpled Dorito and potato chip bags.

  A squalid alley with an ugly secret.

  Someone had dumped Robbie's body here. Frank didn't know who it was, but he would do whatever it took to find the scumbag.

  Mentally crossing tasks off his do-list, he got on his cellphone. Homicides didn't always happen at convenient hours, and Vobitch, who'd been called out to many a murder, kept his cellphone beside the bed. He answered on the second ring. “Yeah,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Morgan, it's Frank. I'm at the Circle-K on Esplanade. A trash man found Robbie's body in the dumpster. Blunt trauma to the head.”

  “Fuck. Lemme go downstairs so we can talk.”

  Frank waited. Vobitch tried not to wake Juliana when he got this type of call. Seconds later, Vobitch said, “Damn it to hell! The motherfuckers sent us a message.”

  “A brutal message, to us and to Gates. Soon as I knew it was Robbie, I called Dr. DeMayo. I took the trash collector’s name and number in case we need him to sign a statement and let him go.”

  “Jesus. This’ll be a clusterfuck. Did the trash guy know who it was?”

  “No, and I didn't tell him. Didn't tell DeMayo either, just said I had a VIP homicide and asked him to get here as soon as he could with the coroner's van. I'm pretty sure they killed him somewhere else and dumped him here.”

  “Any media traffic? Reporters? TV cameras?”

  “No, but a lot of them have scanners so the paparazzi could show up any minute. I posted uniforms at both ends of the block. Can you send another squad to help guard the scene?”

  “Consider it done. Did you call Gates?”

  “Hell no. I called you and DeMayo. That's it.”

  “Good work, Frank. We better meet in my office and figure out how to handle this.”

  “Okay. I need to take a shower first. Your office, six-thirty?”

  “See you then,” Vobitch said.

  Frank shut his cellphone. The chirping was louder now, a growing cacophony as birds swooped into the next yard and
perched on bare tree limbs, stark against the leaden sky. He saw the coroner's van pull off Esplanade onto Dauphine, ignoring the one-way sign, and stop.

  Dr. Albert DeMayo got out. An older man with thinning gray hair, the Orleans Parish coroner had on his usual baggy brown suit. Frank had the utmost respect for him. Over the years, DeMayo's expertise and his ability to explain complicated medical terms had helped Frank solve more than one homicide.

  Leaving his assistant in the van, DeMayo approached him, carrying a brown-leather satchel.

  “Thanks for getting here so fast, Doctor DeMayo. I appreciate it.”

  “You're welcome, Frank. Good to see you, but not under these circumstances.”

  “That's for sure.” Struggling to maintain his composure, Frank gestured at Robbie's body. “The victim is ten years old. It ain't pretty.”

  “Are you okay?” DeMayo asked, searching his face.

  “Yeah,” he said, automatically. But then he thought: No. Not okay.

  “Not really. I'm never okay with murdered kids.”

  “Nor am I,” DeMayo said. “Who is he?”

  Unwilling to explain the complicated paternity issue, Frank said, “His father's the VIP. Hunter Gates. Someone kidnapped his wife and two kids, didn't get what they wanted and killed the boy. Gates is trying to keep it quiet, doesn't want any publicity.”

  “Well, he'll get it now. No way can we keep this quiet.”

  “True, but NOPD won't be issuing any statements about the kidnapping. Unless Gates does.”

  DeMayo frowned. “I met Gates and his wife at a party a few years ago. She's pleasant enough, but he's a cold fish. Smiles for the television cameras, overbearing and pompous in person. That doesn't mean I'm happy his son's been murdered, of course.”

  Setting his satchel down on the pavement, DeMayo pulled on latex gloves and squatted beside the trash bag. Using his thumb and forefinger, he pulled away the bag to expose Robbie's head. His scalp was torn and part of his skull was exposed, seeping yellow cranial fluid. Dried blood coated the left side of his face, neck and the collar of his red-and-white striped polo shirt.

  With a heavy grunt, DeMayo labored to his feet. “Blunt force trauma to the head. It appears he's been dead for a while. Did you find a weapon?”

  “No. I'm almost certain he was killed somewhere else and dumped here.” Conscious of the passing minutes, he said, “Could you take the photographs you need and get him to the morgue? I'd like to get him out of here before the reporters show up.” Hoping DeMayo would agree. He had no authority over the coroner.

  “Okay, but I'll need you to stipulate in a deposition that in your judgment this isn't the primary homicide scene. Who pulled him out of the dumpster?”

  “A trash collector noticed his hand, pulled the trash bag out of the dumpster, put it on the ground and opened the bag.”

  “And contaminated the scene.”

  “True, but I can't blame him. He thought he could help the boy.”

  DeMayo opened his satchel and took out a Nikon digital camera. “I'll photograph the dumpster, take some photos to establish where the body was in relation to the dumpster, and get him to the morgue.”

  “Thanks. After you leave, I've got a meeting with Morgan Vobitch.”

  “Good man,” DeMayo said. “Is he aware of the kidnapping situation?”

  “Yes. You also need to know that Gates called in the FBI, specifically SAC Terrance McNally.”

  “Another cold fish,” DeMayo growled, motioning him away from Robbie's body. “Stand over there so I can take the shots I need and get the boy out of here.”

  Frank stepped back onto the sidewalk, thankful he'd called DeMayo, not some low-level assistant who might not keep his mouth shut.

  Five minutes later, DeMayo finished documenting the scene and called to his assistant to bring the gurney and a body bag.

  “Thanks for being so helpful, Doctor.” Frank took out his card. “Could you do me another favor? Call me right away if you find anything unusual when you examine him.”

  DeMayo put the card in his pocket and squeezed his shoulder. “Will do, Frank. Go take a long hot shower. You'll feel better.”

  Frank nodded, but a long hot shower wasn't going to erase his black mood.

  After DeMayo and his assistant loaded Robbie's body into the van and drove off, Frank got in his Dodge Charger. Now a second cruiser blocked the intersection at the corner of Esplanade, sent by Vobitch, Frank assumed.

  But a reporter was talking to the officer on the corner. Frank recognized him, a young guy from the Times-Picayune. He drove up to them, got out of the car and said, “No comment from NOPD right now.”

  The reporter said, “I heard on the scanner a body was found behind—”

  “Did you hear me?” Frank snapped. “We have no comment.”

  Seeing his fierce expression, the reporter backed away. “Okay. Just trying to get the story.”

  Frank spotted a television news van driving up Esplanade and said to the officer, “No vehicles or pedestrians on Dauphine. No parking on Esplanade. And no comments about anything to anyone.”

  “Yes, sir.” The officer stepped into the street and waved off the TV van.

  _____

  Five minutes later Frank parked the Dodge Charger on the sidewalk beside his Barracks Street condo in the French Quarter. He'd done what he could for now, but emotions still raged inside him. Forget the shower. If he didn't do something physical, he'd explode.

  He had on the outfit he always wore when called to a homicide scene from home, a black running suit and beat-up Nike's. He put an NOPD placard on the dash, got out and started running. Driven by fury, he loped past pedestrians, coffee shops and storefronts with Halloween costumes in the windows, didn't stop until he got to the river.

  Wisps of fog, ethereal in the gray dawn light, rose from the Mississippi. Frank stared at the murky water, picturing Robbie's body. A ten-year-old boy, murdered because someone wanted money, vicious scumbags who'd kill to get what they wanted.

  He turned and jogged down the cement walkway beside the river, guilt festering inside him like an open sore. No cops, the notes had said, but he and Vobitch had made the decision to monitor the ransom drop. That the kidnappers had killed Robbie infuriated him, but his dominant emotion was sorrow, a visceral pain that scalded him like boiling oil.

  Over the years, he'd taken charge of dozens of homicides, but the murder of innocent children always got to him.

  He kept running, his feet pounding the cement, picturing Robbie’s room, the science award on the wall, a new science project laid out on a table: pictures of frogs and diagrams of a frog's skeleton and nervous system.

  But that wasn't what pained him the most. No Robbie in the Gates family photograph, just a separate photo of Robbie, all alone.

  And that was how he had died. Alone and defenseless. Pleading for his life. Not outside the Circle-K, somewhere else.

  Now he had to tell Blanche her grandson was dead. He couldn't tell her on the phone. He had to go there and talk to her, try to explain. He had no idea what he would say.

  When he reached the trolley stop near Decatur Street, he turned around and headed back to his condo. Not his customary five mile run, but he had to take a shower and meet Vobitch.

  He increased his speed, pushing himself, breathing hard, his feet pounding the cement. I'll get you for this, you sick bastard.

  Repeating the words over and over in his mind.

  _____

  Dressed in his uniform, Sam sat at the kitchen table, watching S.J. polish off a second bowl of Fruit Loops. Soon as Abby finished dressing, he'd head for work. Footsteps sounded in the hall and she entered the kitchen, wearing one of her new fall outfits, a forest-green sweater and a green plaid skirt.

  “The champ had a second helping of cereal,” Sam said.

  S.J. beamed, his big brown eyes sparkling. “For extra energy so I can do my school work.”

  “Good job!” Abby said. She kissed S.J.'s cheek,
circled the table and planted another kiss on Sam's cheek. “Looks like rain today. I better check the traffic report.”

  She turned on the seven-inch TV on the counter. Sam had given it to her for Christmas. They never watched it during meals, but Abby liked to watch the news while she was fixing dinner.

  The screen blossomed with color, the woman who did the early morning news saying, “We have breaking news. A young boy was found dead early this morning in a dumpster behind the Circle-K convenience store on Esplanade Avenue. Police will not identify him until they notify his next of kin.”

  Horrified, Sam stared at the screen. The Circle-K on Esplanade.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead and acid flooded his stomach. Robbie. Darin killed Robbie.

  “How awful,” Abby said and glanced at S.J., fearing his reaction. But he wasn't paying attention, leaning out of his wheelchair, stuffing a workbook into his backpack.

  Sam rose to his feet, his heart a jackhammer in his chest, staring at the TV, ready to bolt if the announcer gave too many details. But then the weather report came on.

  “Sam,” Abby said. “What's wrong? Your face is all sweaty.”

  He left the kitchen without answering, went in the bathroom and shut the door. Sickened by the news, he leaned over the sink. Fearing he'd puke, he ran the cold water, scooped some into his hand and splashed it on his face.

  It had to be Robbie. The Circle-K on Esplanade was the site of the ransom drop.

  After the cops grabbed Darin's flunky at Delgardo, Darin had come home ranting and raving, furious because Gates had called the cops and the cops had grabbed the kid. When Sam said they better release the hostages, Darin said No, not till we get the money. Then Darin had told him to go home and go to bed.

  And Lord help him, that's what he’d done.

  A black cloud of despair engulfed him. He raised his head and gazed at his face in the mirror, the face of a guilty man.

  Darin had murdered Robbie, but he was just as guilty. Helping Darin kidnap the woman and her kids, thinking everything would go smooth as silk. Get the money, release the hostages, everything would be fine and he'd have the money he so desperately needed.