Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6

by Susan Fleet

  “Jesus fucking Christ!”

  He raced down the hall to the girl's room. Same fucking thing. An empty room. Incensed, he pounded down the hall to the front door, went out on the porch and stared at the driveway.

  Sam's car should have been there, but it wasn't. His wuss of a partner had betrayed him!

  “You cocksucker!” He got on his cellphone and called Sam. The phone rang and rang. No answer.

  He felt like his head would explode. He stormed into the kitchen, took two beers out of the fridge, popped the cap on one and drank it down. Silently cursing, he threw the bottle in the trash, opened the other one and paced around the living room, swigging beer. He wanted to kill someone. Not just anyone, Sam and the hostages and that fucking asshole Gates.

  Rigid with fury, he screamed, “Motherfucker!”

  His perfect plan had turned to shit. Gates had called the cops, and now his hostages were gone. Sam must have let them go. He wouldn't squeal to the cops. Hell, Sam was a cop. And just as guilty as he was.

  Sam was a wuss, but he wasn't stupid. Officer Sam Thompson wouldn't be telling anybody about their kidnapping scheme.

  But the cops had nabbed Sweets. Another worry. The stupid shit better keep his mouth shut or he'd be history.

  Darin pressed the cold beer bottle against his forehead. His body was burning up, his mind teeming with problems.

  Could the girl and the woman identify him? No. He'd been careful to wear the mask whenever he went in their rooms. That relieved him somewhat, but anger simmered inside him, a witch's cauldron of boiling oil.

  He needed money, a shitload of money if he was going to fly his mother to Mexico to get her a new liver.

  But that wasn’t the only reason he had targeted Gates.

  He’d done it to punish him. And Gates had betrayed him.

  The prick didn't deserve to live. Time for Plan B.

  CHAPTER 26

  11:50 PM

  Rose sipped some water, set the Styrofoam cup on the bedside table and sank back against the pillows. If she was home she could watch TV. No TV here. Too expensive. No rosary either, not that she wanted to pray. Any prayers she'd learned at that Catholic Church when she and Ma first came here were long forgotten.

  But she liked fingering the beads. Counting them helped pass the time. Darin hadn't come to see her for two days. That never happened. Something must be wrong. She wished she could call him. No phone here, either. Too expensive.

  She started humming her lucky song. Not that she expected Darin to come see her this late, but humming the tune and hearing the words in her head comforted her. Oh, the shark, babe … has such teeth, dear … And it shows them … pearly white

  And like a miracle, the door of her room opened. But it wasn't Darin, it was Mr. Peekaboo. Rose smiled. “Hello, Mr. Peekaboo.”

  “Hi, Rose,” he said, bustling around the room, checking the beep-beep machine that kept her awake. No smile tonight.

  “Why you frowning?” she asked. “You worry about something?”

  He didn't answer, just turned away from the monitor and bent down to check the plastic bag that hung below the bed. The bag collected the fluids that made her ankles and belly blow up like balloons. The pills she took were supposed to get rid of the fluid. Or so the doctor said.

  Mr. Peekaboo removed the plastic bag, half full of yellow liquid now, set it on the floor and replaced it with an empty bag. Not very talkative tonight. Something must be bothering him, his movements fast and jerky like he was in a hurry, taking the half-full bag to the disposal container in the corner of the room and shoving it through the slot, then taking the paper cup with her pills off the blue plastic tray he always carried.

  “Here are your pills, Rose. Be a good girl and swallow them, okay?”

  Rose smiled at him, dutifully took the little paper cup and tipped the pills into her mouth. He helped her sip water from the Styrofoam cup, watching her. When she first came to the hospital, she’d refused to take the pills, fearing they might do something to her mind, steal her memories maybe. Now all the nurses, even Mr. Peekaboo, made sure she swallowed them.

  But she still had her memories. All she had left now.

  “Good job, Rose!” Smiling at last, he picked up the blue tray and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow night,” he said, and went out the door.

  Rose sank back against the pillow, thinking of Darin, her beautiful son with the half-American face, wishing she was in her own bed with her jasmine scented pillow. Darin was a good boy, worked hard all the time so he could pay the rent on their shotgun in Kenner. Two days in a row he hadn't come to see her, but he was always thinking of her. Rose closed her eyes.

  Darin would come see her tomorrow. She was certain of it.

  _____

  12:18 AM

  Donna heard a car coming up the ramp of the parking garage. Please let it be Lenny. She leaned forward over the cement wall and spotted a lemon yellow roof. Lenny's car! Giddy with relief, she ran to the up-ramp so he would see her. Moments later, bright headlights swept over her.

  The two-door Kia Rio stopped and she got in the passenger seat. “Thank you, Lenny. I don't know what I'd have done if you didn't come get me. Did René tell you what happened?”

  “Yes,” he said curtly, not looking at her as he circled around and entered the down ramp. He seemed angry, his face set in a fierce look of concentration.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “You've been working all night. You must be tired.”

  “It's been a long day,” he said, wheeling around a corner, driving fast.

  She held onto the grab-bar, fearing they would run into another car. But no cars were leaving the Lakeside Shopping Center parking garage at this hour. That's why she'd come here. Fortunately East Jefferson Hospital was a few blocks away. Lenny, a registered nurse, worked the night shift there.

  When they reached the exit, he turned right, then a quick left and stopped at a traffic light at the intersection of Vets Boulevard. Unnerved by his stony silence, she said, “I’m really worried. I don't know where Robbie is.”

  “I'll tell you when we get home.”

  Her heart surged. “You know where he is?”

  The light changed and he turned right onto Vets Boulevard, eyes focused on the road, his jaw clenched. “I said I'll tell you when we get home.”

  Her throat tightened and tears stung her eyes. Something was wrong. Waves of anger radiated from Lenny's wiry body. Like René, he had dark eyes, dark curly hair and a strong aquiline nose. But Lenny was two inches taller than René and three years older. Two talented brothers, though neither of them made much money, René a jazz pianist, Lenny an artist, selling his paintings to tourists in Jackson Square, working nights to make ends meet.

  In the uncomfortable silence, she recalled what René had said about his family. His ancestors were Creoles of Color, light-skinned, but black nevertheless. When she looked at him, puzzled, he explained the one drop rule. In the South, it didn't matter how light your skin was or how European your features were. If you had one drop of black blood in your family, you were black. He seemed surprised that she didn't know this. But how would she? She had grown up in Westerly, Rhode Island, an affluent, mostly-white city.

  His grandfather, Alphonse Picou, had been a carpenter by trade, a jazz clarinetist at night, a light-skinned Creole of Color proud of his African, French and Spanish ancestors. Alphonse was dead now, but his son, Rene's father, had inherited his talent. Leonard Picou played jazz trumpet. He didn't play gigs anymore. He had emphysema, thanks to all the cigarettes he'd smoked when he was playing the clubs. René's mother was French, an artist like Lenny.

  Who hadn't spoken a word for ten minutes as they sped down the I-10. He took the Esplanade Avenue exit, drove south and turned onto a tree-lined side street. Donna breathed a sigh of relief. Almost home. Lenny lived in a small two-bedroom Creole cottage, where she and René met for their trysts. But René wouldn't be home until Friday. Two days from now. An eternity.


  Lenny parked the Kia in front of a small white clapboard house, and she followed him inside, amazed as always by his paintings. Framed on one living room wall, Mardi Gras Indians danced in feathered costumes with colorful beads. On another wall were stylized images of jazz musicians: a black trumpet player, his head thrown back, his trumpet aimed at the sky; a saxophone player in a pork-pie hat and a cerulean blue shirt. René's piano stood against another wall, a small upright, the keyboard exposed, ready to play.

  “You want something to eat?” Lenny asked. “A drink?”

  “No. Tell me about Robbie.”

  An angry flush rose on his cheeks. “Robbie is dead.”

  Stunned, she gasped and clutched her chest. “No! Robbie's not dead.”

  Lenny clenched his jaw. “Trust me, Donna. It’s true. Robbie is dead.”

  She didn't believe it. “How do you know?”

  “It's been the lead story on the news all day.” His fierce expression softened. He came over and hugged her. “I'm sorry, Donna. I didn't want to be the one to tell you. René doesn't know yet. I couldn't bear to tell him when he called me. You'll have to tell him when he comes home.”

  Breathing in shallow gasps, she pushed him away and stumbled to René's piano. She felt like every organ in her body had been ripped out of her body, her heart and lungs, her liver and spleen. She didn't believe it.

  Robbie wasn't dead. How could he be?

  As though reading her thoughts, Lenny said, “One of the kidnappers must have killed him.”

  “No, not Robbie,” she wailed. “No, no, no, no, no.” She grabbed the piano to keep from falling. René's piano. And now his son, the light of her life, the boy who looked just like him, was dead. Hot tears spilled from her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. She tried to get her breath, sucking in gulps of air.

  What would she do without Robbie? Unable to bear it, she looked at Lenny, who shook his head and ducked into the kitchen.

  She ran down the hall to Rene's room and shut the door. Kneeling on the floor beside the bed, she pressed her face against the bedspread, convulsed in wracking sobs. In a fit of fury, she pounded her fists on the bed. Bargaining with a God she didn't believe in, saying she'd do anything to have Robbie back, seconds later raging at the cruel God who had taken him from her.

  Lenny tapped on the door and called, “Are you all right, Donna?”

  That sent her into a fury. How could she be all right? Her son was dead! After a moment, he tapped on the door again. When she didn't answer, he went away.

  Minutes or hours later—she had no concept of time—she struggled to her feet, took a tissue out of the box beside the bed and blew her nose. Her throat was sore from crying, her eyelids were puffy, and her head was throbbing. People talked about having a broken heart.

  Now she knew what they meant.

  When she went in the living room, Lenny was sitting on the futon drinking a beer. Without a word, he got up and went in the kitchen, came back with a bottle of Abita and held it out to her. “Sit down and drink this. If you haven't eaten, you better not have anything stronger.”

  She didn't have the strength to argue. Her body ached, her brain was a fuzz ball, and her head hurt. Docile as a child, she took the bottle and perched on the maple rocking chair with the padded seat beside the futon. Her stomach felt queasy. Any minute now she might throw up.

  If she was pregnant, she shouldn't drink any alcohol or take meds for her headache. She put the beer bottle on the coffee table and massaged her temples as images flashed through her mind. The day she brought Robbie home from the hospital, his dark hair hidden beneath a blue knit cap, his face bright red as he let out a lusty yell. The day he learned to ride a two-wheeler at her mother's house in Luling. The day she took him to first grade, Robbie's eyes bright with excitement. His sad-eyed look the day she married Hunter Gates.

  The worst decision of her life.

  Her stomach revolted. She jumped up and ran to the bathroom, knelt at the toilet and heaved her guts out. When she was able to stand, she took a facecloth out of a drawer beside the sink, ran cold water on it and pressed it to her face. The kidnappers were monsters, but she was no better.

  She should have protected Robbie, should have made them let Robbie and Emily stay with her. But she hadn't. Now Robbie was dead and Emily was gone, too. Hunter would take her home, spoil her rotten and bind her even closer to him. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  She brushed her teeth with the toothbrush she kept here and returned to the living room. Lenny was on the futon, his feet propped on the coffee table, drinking his beer. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “No?” she said coldly. “How could I be? My son—your nephew—is dead and my daughter's home with the son-of-a-bitch who fathered her.”

  She stalked into the kitchen, took a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and returned to the living room. “I need you to drive me to a drugstore tomorrow. I have to buy a pregnancy test.”

  Lenny's eyes widened. “You're pregnant? Jesus, what a mess.”

  CHAPTER 27

  THURSDAY October 28 – 8:30 AM

  “You get any sleep?” Vobitch asked. “Any phone calls from Gates?”

  “Slept till seven, no calls from Gates,” Frank said. Didn't mention the nightmare that jolted him awake at three AM, a tsunami of blood chasing him down a hall like a scene from The Shining, someone screaming at him. He couldn't see who it was, but he knew it was Robbie.

  “Did you see the statement Gates had his PR flack put out to the media?”

  “Yes, asking for privacy for him and his family at this difficult time, blah, blah, blah. The guy's got antifreeze in his veins.”

  “You got that right,” Vobitch said. “Not a peep about the kidnapping or the fact that his wife is missing. And if Gates says she's home with him, who's going to say she isn't? So where the hell is she?”

  Frank drank some coffee and ate the last bite of his Danish. Great pastry, crisp and flaky and full of tart strawberry filling. Vobitch had bought a dozen Danish at the pastry shop near his house. He was a frequent customer, when Julianna wasn’t with him.

  “Blanche promised to call me if Donna shows up there,” he said. “Or calls her.”

  Vobitch's desk phone rang. He checked the ID, let it go to voice-mail and tapped a pen on his cluttered desk. “You think she'd tell you if Donna was there? Blood is thicker than water.”

  “She'll call me. She's devastated about Robbie. Now she's worried about Donna. So am I. Maybe she's with René. Wherever the hell he is.”

  Vobitch sipped his coffee. “Be good to find Donna and talk to her, but our first priority is nailing Robbie's killer.”

  “That's at the top of my list,” Frank said grimly. “Maybe the priest will call today. Be great if one of his parishioners recognized the cross.”

  “You think Rose is related to Ponytail?”

  “The date on the cross is 1975, so Rose must be at least forty. Maybe he's her son or her brother.”

  “Or her husband,” Vobitch said. “Talk to CC lately?”

  “No. She wants to interview Gates's neighbors.”

  “What does she expect to get out of that?”

  Frank shrugged. “Maybe she’s covering her ass with Walsh. My gut still tells me Gates is dirty. Screw the neighbors. I want to talk to Gates. Alone.”

  “Watch out,” Vobitch said. “He wasn't too happy last time he was here.”

  “He's got Emily. She seems to be his main concern. Not Donna.”

  “That was my impression,” Vobitch said. “Sooner or later, he'll have to come clean and admit she’s missing. That won't do his political aspirations any good.”

  “Ask me if I care.” Frank rose to his feet. “I better get back to the office and check my messages.”

  Vobitch went to the brown bakery box on the file cabinet beside the coffeemaker, took out a lemon Danish and handed him the box. “Don't tell Juliana I had one. She’s got me on a diet. Take these to the homic
ide office and tell the troops I said to keep up the good work.”

  “Thanks for the Danish.” Frank paused, then said, “And thanks for all your support. I appreciate it.”

  “Always.” Vobitch pursed his lips, his eyes somber. “If anybody can get the fucker that killed the boy, you can.”

  He went down the hall to the office and put the bakery box on a file cabinet by the door. “Danish from Morgan. He says keep up the good work.”

  Kenyon pushed his chair back from his desk. “Meaning find the bastard who killed Robbie, right?”

  “You got it,” Frank said, watching as Kenyon and David rushed to the bakery box. David won. He was closer.

  Both men took a pastry and returned to their desks.

  Kenyon took a bite of Danish and said, “Desk officer called while you were out, said Raven Woodson wants to talk to you, says she's got a tip for you. I told him to have her wait, said you'd be down in a minute. Isn't she the investigative reporter on the FOX affiliate?”

  “Yes,” Frank said. And if she had information, he wanted to hear it.

  _____

  9:30 AM

  Sam drove down Bourbon Street, crunching an orange-flavored Tums. This much acid in his stomach, he'd have an ulcer soon. Last night when Darin called, he didn't answer. What could he say?

  You're a monster, killing Robbie and tossing his body in the dumpster to send a message to Gates.

  He stopped beside a strip joint, bump-and-grind music with a heavy bass beat booming through the open door, not much action at this hour, two skinny Asian girls stripping for three men at the bar sucking up beer. He mopped sweat from his brow and kept going.

  On the news this morning it said the cops had found Emily at Whole Foods but said nothing about Donna. Strange. He'd seen her take Emily into the store after he sped out of the parking lot.

  He tapped the gas and drove past a store with Halloween costumes in the window. Three days till Halloween. This year it was on Sunday. He and Abby would take S.J. trick-or-treating, take turns pushing S.J.'s wheelchair around the neighborhood.