Snatched

by Pamela Burford

  He slipped his left hand into his coat pocket and switched on the voice-activated recorder. A Glock nine-millimeter rested in the right-hand pocket. He preferred not to carry on the job, but he wasn’t stupid. This Hal was a dangerous dude. He was also related to Will/Ricky in some way; the family resemblance was too strong for coincidence. Of course, the resemblance was actually to Will’s nephew. Wesley had assumed Judith Baines’s late husband was her kid’s dad until he’d done a little checking and discovered Mick was seven when his mother had met and married Dr. Donald Drinkwater.

  Which naturally made Wesley wonder whether Hal himself might be the proud daddy—a possibility he’d initially discounted, but now he wasn’t so sure. If only he knew Hal’s last name, even an alias, he could dig a little deeper and find out how he fit into the family. A check of Hal Baineses and Kitchens had turned up zilch. He’d also looked into friends and business associates of the family who were named Hal or Harold or anything close. No luck there either.

  That train of thought led inevitably to speculation of Hal’s involvement in Ricky Baines’s kidnapping. If Hal was indeed Mick’s father, that meant he’d been balling Ricky’s half sister Judith at around the same time. Judith had been a loose cannon in those days, a spoiled girl testing every sort of limit, most notably her parents’ patience. Wesley hadn’t been the only cop back then to put forward the idea that the girl was somehow involved. Not that any evidence existed to directly link her to the crime. Chalk it up to the old blue sense.

  Those suspicions vanished when the boy was reunited with his family. Wesley was present for the event and he witnessed Judith’s emotional response. You can’t fake something like that. Wesley would never forget the sight of the girl locking her arms around her little brother, sobbing uncontrollably and looking as if she’d never let go.

  Cautiously he passed the band shell, eyes moving, ears straining for any sound not related to weather, waterfowl, or the distant midmorning traffic.

  ______

  “LOOK WHO DROPPED a couple hundred pounds of blubber,” Hal said as he and Mick joined Joe Silver behind the band shell. Trees and a high fence separated this patch of scraggly grass from the golf course next door. “That must’ve been some crash diet, Joe,” he added. “You oughta write a book.”

  “Yeah, I could make a fortune.” Silver did not appear amused. “Only, I got a better way to make a fortune, my friend, which is that you could stop dicking around and tell me what you know about the two mil.” Even without the padded disguise, Silver was a big guy, but powerful, too, Hal could tell.

  Mick stood with his hands jammed in his jeans pockets, shoulders hunched against the light rain, which was beginning to let up. His sullen glower raked Silver from head to toe. “I’ve never met this guy, Hal. Like I told you.” He got in Silver’s face. “So how’d you get my number, dickwad?”

  “Drop it,” Hal told his son. “We’re all here now, all interested in the same thing.”

  Mick jabbed his splinted finger at Silver. “And you’re not getting any. That money’s ours. So just just turn around and—”

  “Shut up,” Hal said.

  “Who the fuck does this guy think he is, that he can just—”

  “Did you not hear me?” Hal’s voice remained calm; he simply gave his son the look. Mick shrunk back into himself, grumbling. He’d repeatedly warned Mick to keep his yap shut and let Hal do the talking. Judith must’ve had one hell of a time raising this kid.

  “You’re late,” Silver said. “Your boy here told me two o’clock.”

  “He also told you Friday,” Hal said. “You’re the one insisted on moving it up three days. You should be thankful we even showed up.”

  “What did you think,” Silver said, “I was gonna let you two jerk me around for who knows how long and beat me out of my share?”

  Hal had had no choice but to accede to Silver’s demand to meet on Tuesday afternoon. He didn’t dare test the man’s patience. He could spill the beans anytime, tell Will what his nephew and so-called cousin were up to. Plus, if Mick was that high when he talked to Silver, so out of it he couldn’t even recall meeting the man, there was no telling how much he’d revealed. Silver might know enough to send Hal back to Attica for life.

  “What makes you think Will got hold of the money?” Silver asked.

  “Call it intuition,” Hal said. “What does it matter?”

  “What, little Ricky Baines fakes his own kidnapping, then hacks off his finger to make it look real?”

  This scenario elicited a whinny of laughter from Mick.

  “’Cause that’s the only way I can think of for the money to end up with the victim,” Silver said.

  “You’ll get your split as long as you keep your mouth shut,” Hal said. “That’s all you need to know.”

  “Did Judith know you were the one that snatched her kid brother?”

  Before Hal could muzzle him, Mick answered. “You kidding? She was the one that thought it up.” He moved fast, dodging the back of Hal’s hand. “What? That’s what you said.”

  “I also said, shut the hell up.” Hal seized a fistful of his son’s leather jacket. “Is that so tough to remember?”

  “All right, all right.” Mick shot a self-conscious glance at Silver as he tried to squirm out of Hal’s grasp. Hal shoved him away.

  “So that’s how it was, huh?” Silver asked. “You and Ricky’s sister were in on it together.”

  “You’re pretty damn nosy.” The hairs on Hal’s nape prickled.

  Silver shrugged. “The whole world wants to know what really happened. I figure I got a right, seeing as we’re partners now. What, like I’m gonna blab to my barber? After taking a cut of the dough?”

  Mick was irrepressible. “Damn right you’re not gonna blab.”

  “You were the one dressed up like a security guard,” Silver told Hal. “Bide your time for a few days, then make your move when the kid goes to buy his M&M’s. Solo operation like that takes brains and balls. I thought so at the time and I still do.”

  “Shucks.” Hal slid the .45 automatic from the back of his waistband, cocked it, and took aim at Silver’s heart. “You’re making me blush.”

  “Take it easy, my friend.” Silver spread his hands. “We’re just talking here.”

  “How’d you know about the M&M’s, Joe?”

  “Huh? The news. You know.”

  “The press never got hold of that detail,” Hal said. All anyone knew was that the abduction took place at a vending machine. Early on, some TV reporter called it a soda machine, and everyone else took that as gospel. As far as the public was concerned, Ricky Baines was snatched while buying a frosty can of Coke. The powers that be at PepsiCo probably didn’t know whether to weep or cheer.

  “I know I read it somewhere,” Silver said.

  “Yeah, in a police report. Keep those hands up.”

  Mick’s perplexed gaze bounced from one man to the other. “What’s going on?”

  “Our ‘business partner’ here is a cop,” Hal said.

  “Fuck. No way.”

  “You’re nuts,” Silver said. “I’m a guidance counselor, like I—”

  “Only a cop would’ve known about the M&M’s.”

  Hal squeezed the trigger just as Silver’s hand darted toward his coat pocket. The round punched into Silver’s chest at point-blank range. He dropped to the wet grass like a supersized sack of potatoes.

  Mick’s scream flushed a flock of birds out of the nearby trees. Hal pointed the gun at his hysterical son. Quietly he said, “I will shoot you if you don’t stop.”

  Mick gulped air. He was bug-eyed and ashen. Hal moved to the corner of the band shell and peered into the park to ensure they were still alone. The rain had let up, but the sky was still swollen. Over his shoulder he said, “Check his pockets.” Silver might have told someone where he was going today, who he was meeting. If I’m not back by four, call the cops.

  As if that weren’t bad enough, somehow Judith had fo
und out Hal was a free man, according to Mick. She was freaking out, he said, warning Mick to look out for him, catching the next flight home. Was she nervous enough to confess all to her brother? To involve the authorities?

  When he re-joined Mick, the kid hadn’t moved a muscle; he stood staring at the corpse, at the sightless, half-open eyes.

  “You’re worthless, you know that?” Hal said.

  “You killed him.” Mick whispered it over and over like some kind of demented mantra. “You killed him. You fucking killed him.”

  “Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Hal squatted by the body. “If it wasn’t for you shooting off your mouth, your buddy here wouldn’t have come sniffing around in the first place.” He reached into Silver’s coat pocket and found the pistol the man had been going for. Wiping his prints off it, he said, “You happy now? That could’ve been you and me lying here.”

  “Let’s get outta here.”

  Hal left Silver’s gun lying by his body. He replaced his own weapon under his waistband where it was concealed by his lightweight windbreaker and checked Silver’s other pocket. “What’s this thing?”

  Mick peered at the slim electronic device. “It’s a recorder.”

  “No shit. Where’s the tape?” He turned the thing around, inspecting it from all angles.

  “There’s no tape, it’s digital. Come on, man,” Mick whined, “let’s go.”

  Hal studied the gadget. It was still going; must be voice-activated. He located the rewind button, then pushed Play. First came Silver’s voice: “. . . Judith know you were the one that snatched her kid brother?” followed by Mick’s: “You kidding? She was the one—” Hal stopped the playback, figured out how to erase the recording, and slipped the device into his pocket.

  “We gotta get outta here.” Mick sounded like a little girl. “Come on, Hal, let’s go.”

  “I’m not finished.” Hal produced his switchblade and flipped it open.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Mick shrieked. “We gotta get outta here. You fucking killed a guy.”

  Hal studied Silver’s face. There was the ideal spot to start, right there in front of the left ear. Hal smiled. Ready for your face-lift, Joe?

  The first bead of blood appeared and Mick lost it. He seized Hal by the shoulders and, in an astonishing display of strength, threw him off Silver. Hal sprang up, swinging the blade. Mick hopped out of the way. Hal was unprepared for the sneakered foot that flew at him. He watched his beloved switchblade bounce off the back of the band shell when he should have been dodging the fist Mick drove into his midsection. Hal doubled over, gagging, while the kid clutched his splinted finger and roared in pain.

  Mick kicked Hal. “Get up. We’re outta here now.” Hal went for the gun in his waistband, but his son was faster. The cold barrel kissed Hal’s temple. “I’m not gonna get caught out here ’cause you get your rocks off slicing and dicing. Move.” He propelled Hal toward the corner of the band shell.

  “My blade,” Hal croaked. “Fingerprints.”

  Mick bent to retrieve the switchblade, which he folded and slipped into his own pocket.

  Hal had always known he’d have to eliminate Mick. Until this moment, he hadn’t been looking forward to it.

  ______

  WILL RAISED HIS binoculars as Hal and Mick emerged from behind the band shell. The pair had left the house over an hour ago, supposedly headed for the local sporting goods store. Will had followed at a discreet distance in Irving’s anonymous blue Chevy. He sat parked on a residential side street with a complete view of the park. His suspicions regarding Cousin Keith appeared to be founded. Whatever he was up to, Will’s nephew was involved. He wished that surprised him.

  Was it drugs? He wouldn’t put anything past Mick, but Hal seemed too high-functioning for a guy with a habit. He’d told Will he’d done some stuff in his youth and that it was behind him. Will believed him. If not drugs, then what? Not some kind of sexual tryst. Hal and Mick were both a hundred percent hetero; he’d bet money on it.

  Someone in the house Will was parked in front of probably thought he was up to something. Every once in a while a window curtain flicked, but no one emerged to question his presence in this nouveau riche bedroom community, so Will ignored it.

  The term nouveau riche nudged his thoughts toward Lucy Narby. Also bedroom. Maybe he’d drive up to the North Shore after this, pay her a little visit.

  Why? his sensible side grumped. So he could come this close again, only to be lectured about his Peter Pan tendencies or interrupted by her kid?

  If it were any other woman, he’d say to hell with her and her hang-ups. There were plenty of other ladies who didn’t turn all Dr. Phil on him and overanalyze mutual attraction and good, healthy sex. But the fact was, Lucy was different. He didn’t obsess over those other ladies the way he was . . . no, not obsessing, simply thinking about Lucy. As in all the time.

  Will forced himself to focus, visually as well as mentally, adjusting the binoculars to get a better look at his cousin and his nephew. Mick looked rattled. Hal looked rattled and pissed—and hyperalert, scanning his surroundings as the two strode toward Gabby’s car, which shared the narrow parking strip with a white Maxima. Where was the driver of the Maxima? Will had a view of the entire park, and except for Hal and Mick, it was vacant.

  After they’d driven away, Will stepped from the car and headed into the park. Maybe Hal and Mick had left something behind, some clue to whatever they were up to. He retraced their steps past the duck pond and around the band shell—and stopped dead in his tracks, staring at a body sprawled in the wet grass. A body clad in a charcoal gray trench coat with a hole in the center of the chest. That face. He’d seen that face before. He knew this person, but in his stunned state it took a couple of seconds to register.

  What the hell was Archie Esterhaus doing here? Maybe it was the man’s position sprawled there on the ground, or just Will’s state of shock, but Archie looked like he’d lost a ton of weight since last week. Will approached the body, scrabbling for his cell phone before recalling he’d lent the phone to Cuba. Something shiny winked in the grass near the body. He picked it up. A pistol. Semiautomatic.

  “Police! Drop the weapon!”

  Will wheeled around and found himself face-to-face with two uniformed cops, a middle-aged black woman and a young, crew-cut white man, their service weapons trained on him.

  The woman sharpened her aim. “I said drop it.”

  Will tossed the gun and thrust his arms up. “I just got—”

  “On the ground.” Rough hands forced him facedown on the turf, cuffed his wrists, frisked him. The woman barked into her radio. Suspect in custody. Ambulance. Grove Street. Band shell. A fourth person arrived on the scene, a skinny older woman whose eggplant-colored jogging suit matched her puffy hair.

  “That’s him!” the woman shrieked. “That’s the fellow that was peeking through my windows. With binoculars!”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Will told the cops.

  “Oh my God, he killed that man!” the woman screeched, as the cops ordered her back to her house. She stood rooted in place, a broken record stuck on “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

  “Wait. No.” Will tried to turn his head, but the crew-cut cop was having none of it. “The men who did this just left. They’re driving a purple—”

  “You’re under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

  “Listen to me.” Will struggled to turn his head; the cop slammed it back down. “They’re on their way to my place!” he roared, spitting grass. “My son is there. You’ve got to—”

  Another head-slam. “—can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney . . .”

  Chapter 25

  HAL ENTERED THE Goo, with Mick slouching in after him like a whipped dog. No, not whipped, not anymore, not since that thing with Joe Silver in the park. The whipped dog had turned into a feral pit bull, untrained and unpredictable. The ki
d had discovered something that passed for balls, and at the worst possible time.

  Hal strolled into the social hall with as much cool as he could muster, considering the invisible time bomb strapped to his chest. Nassau County’s finest might be on their way even now if Joe Silver did indeed have someone waiting by the phone for an all-clear. He started to send Mick outside to keep watch, then thought better of it. The kid was no longer under Hal’s control; he might even come up with an idea or two on his own. Hal needed his son right here, where he could keep an eye on him.

  Hal had checked the house first, looking for Will. No one was there. They passed through the social hall into the kitchen, where potatoes, onions, and carrots shared counter space with a thawing shoulder roast.

  Mick whispered, “We don’t have time for this, let’s—”

  “You want to walk away from your share, be my guest, my man. I’ve got no problem keeping the whole two mil.”

  Mick’s conflicting impulses chased each other across his face. He squinted toward the outer door. No patrol cars screaming up the drive. Not yet anyway. “All right, all right. But then let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  They followed the narrow corridor at the back of the building and emerged in the living room. Vacant. Ditto for the game room. Will had one kidnapping client in residence; he wouldn’t have left him completely alone. The door to Room A stood open. As they neared it, Hal heard Ming-hua droning on in Mandarin. He peeked inside.

  The client, a narrow-minded über-WASP who thought “melting pot” meant fondue, stood in the center of the room, his wrists bound overhead to a chain hanging from the ceiling, the ubiquitous duct tape sealing his mouth. Dave something. Dave looked miserable, and no wonder. Ming-hua sat on a hardback chair, reading aloud from the World Journal, a Chinese-language newspaper. Quint, perched on her chairback, appeared to be reading over her shoulder. Without taking her eyes off the paper, Ming-hua reached into the pocket of her housedress, extracted a red licorice whip, and handed it up to the parrot.

  Hal planted himself in front of her. “Where’s Will?”