“You didn’t have the flyest new clothes and Air Jordans back when we were growing up, but that never stopped you from doing whatever was necessary to get them, did it? You know how we are, we don’t wait for a handout, we take what we want, that’s our code, that’s how it always was, and nothing’s changed-you haven’t changed-so you do what you’ve gotta go, you get me my five hundred g’s and you get it by Friday at five, no excuses, no games, no cops, better not see any cops, I got you by the balls, I got you up and down all day, hear me? No bullshit. Fail to deliver and they’ll be in the river. I mean it, you know it, and I’ve got the record to show it. Just do it-and keep this goddamn phone on at all times ’cause I’m going to be checking in with you, got it, are we clear? Are we golden?”
Numb, Corey couldn’t make his lips work to form words.
“Do you understand me, motherfucker!” Leon shouted.
“Yes,” Corey said quietly. “Loud and clear.”
“Outstanding, wonderful, superb, that’s what I wanted to hear. Now get to work.”
Click.
A tremor rattling through him, Corey placed the phone on the counter, the plastic display smudged with sweat.
He read his watch: 8:07.
The deadline was fifty-six hours away, and the clock was ticking.
Part Two
18
Panic gripping him in a vise, Corey rushed into his home office.
Control, he thought. To get his family back safely, he had to exercise self-control.
He had to stop the cold sweat oozing from his pores. Had to still his trembling hands. Slow his galloping pulse.
Simone and Jada were depending on him. He was the only one who could bring them back alive and unharmed.
Dropping into the swivel-base chair, he powered on the desktop computer and accessed the software he used to administer their household finances. The software was linked via a DSL connection to their financial institutions and provided up-to-the minute transaction and market data.
He discovered, as he’d expected, that the total sum of money he could get his hands on by the Friday deadline was far less than Leon’s ransom demand. The money in their checking and savings accounts totaled $54,972.14.
It was a handsome sum by anyone’s standards. But it left him short of the ransom by approximately four hundred and forty-five thousand dollars.
Drumming the edge of the keyboard, he stared at the screen, as if he could increase the digits exponentially through sheer force of will.
The fifty-five grand was not the extent of their holdings. They had more money invested in mutual funds, 401k’s, CDs, and a college savings plan for Jada, which, when all were totaled and added to the fifty-five thousand, came to about two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars.
A helluva lot of money. For a couple not yet forty, who’d started their family and careers without a trust fund or inheritance, he and Simone had done well, the fruits of a decade of hard work, sacrifice, saving, and investing.
But he couldn’t lay his hands on the funds by Friday afternoon, because of paperwork requirements and processing times. Glancing at the wall calendar above the computer, he estimated that the earliest he could get it all would be the middle of next week, if not later.
And it still would not be sufficient to ransom his family, not by half. As successful as they’d been, it wasn’t enough to save them.
He pushed out of the chair, paced across the room. Had to think. Think.
Equity. They had equity in their home. Nearly a hundred thousand dollars’ worth, according to an appraisal they’d had done last fall.
But a home equity transaction would take weeks to process, and since he jointly owned the house with Simone, he would need her signature on any loan paperwork.
And it still would fall far short of the mark.
He collapsed back into the chair and cradled his head in his hands.
What the hell was Leon thinking? Why was he so convinced that Corey could raise half a million dollars in two days?
Hey, maybe you can rob a bank. . once a hood, always a hood.
God help him, Corey actually began to visualize how he might pull off such a crime. He had a gun. He had a car. There were an abundance of bank branches within a short distance of their home.
Write a note, walk into the lobby, pass the demand to the teller. Show the gun so they know you’re serious. No one has to get hurt.
He shook his head. No. Besides the fact that bank tellers probably kept nowhere near the amount of money he needed in their drawers, he could never do something like that, simply on principle. He wasn’t a criminal-he’d long since left behind that life.
Perhaps that was what Leon wanted, though. To reel him back into the chasm. The old crabs-in-a-barrel syndrome. Leon maybe was furious that Corey had chosen a different path and was determined to destroy everything he had earned.
But he wasn’t a buck-wild, easily influenced teenager unable to see beyond the moment. He was a thirty-four-year-old man with a wife, a daughter, a business. Real responsibilities. A real life.
There had to be another way.
Cracking his knuckles, he left the office. He passed the control panel for the security system, stopped.
The command center’s status light was green, for “Ready.” But he recalled activating the perimeter sensors before he had left for work that morning.
If Leon had abducted his family while they were still in the house-hadn’t Leon said Simone was “in her drawers” when he’d found her? — how had he gotten inside without setting off the alarm?
And no windows had been broken, either, no doors pried open.
Manually disabling the security system would have been far more complicated than simply snipping the wires at the phone box on the house’s exterior wall, too. Corey had installed the package himself. It included cellular backup that would have automatically contacted the police if the landline connection were severed.
Perhaps Leon had become a well-equipped, high-tech thief over the years. Gotten past the front door’s lock with a lock-release gun of some kind, used some sort of slick electronic gadget to scramble the control panel. No system or lock was foolproof, and Leon certainly possessed the intellect for such expertise, if not the discipline and patience Corey thought necessary to master those skills.
As he pondered the question, the doorbell chimed. Frowning, he went to the window in the living room. The wooden Levolor blinds blocked the daylight. He lifted one of the slats and peered outside.
He’d been expecting a courier or a door-to-door solicitor, but a black Ford Crown Victoria with tinted glass was parked in the driveway next to his car. Everything about the vehicle declared cop.
“Shit,” he whispered.
What could the police want? Had a neighbor witnessed something that morning and called it in?
The doorbell chimed again.
If I see a cop on my tail, if I even suspect that you’ve involved them in this private business matter of ours, I’m going to kill your family, and I’m going to make it exquisitely painful, worse than anything you can imagine. .
He had no plans to contact the police, but he couldn’t avoid them if they were at his door. His car was in the drive-way-they knew he was there. Avoiding them would invite suspicions, would raise dangerous questions.
He pushed out a deep breath, wiped sweat from his brow. Clasping his clammy hands, he walked to the front door and opened it.
An attractive young woman in a black pantsuit stood outside, flanked by a man in a gray business suit who Corey took to be her partner. The woman was as petite as a ballerina, with an olive complexion, raven hair knotted into a long ponytail, and large onyx eyes that reflected a degree of perception and experience that contradicted her apparent youth. The guy, perhaps in his midtwenties, was tall and broad-shouldered, with blond hair trimmed in a buzz-cut and glacial blue eyes buried in a marble slab face.
“Mr. Corey Webb?” the woman asked. She had a New York acc
ent and a husky voice that didn’t fit her diminutive stature at all.
“I’m Corey Webb,” he said, pleased that his voice was steady. “May I help you?”
She offered a professional smile and flashed a badge.
“I sure hope you can, sir,” she said. “I’m Special Agent Gina Falco, and this is Special Agent Robert March. We’re with the FBI.”
19
A fresh layer of icy sweat moistened Corey’s hairline. FBI. What could they want?
He had not invited the agents inside. Although he realized that he probably should have asked them in to put to rest any suspicions they might hold of him, a lifelong distrust of law enforcement kept him blocking the threshold.
He folded his arms across his chest. “What can I do for you?”
Falco put away her badge. Her perceptive eyes made him uneasy; they would detect a lie quicker and more effectively than a polygraph.
“May we come inside, please?” she asked.
“That depends on whether I’m in trouble or not.” He offered a short chuckle.
She smiled disarmingly, and he realized why she was doing all the talking. With that smile, her good looks, and those penetrating eyes, she would be able to coax the truth out of virtually anyone.
“We have only a few routine questions to ask you, Mr. Webb,” she said.
“About what?”
“This individual here.”
Although Falco spoke, March offered Corey the photograph. Corey took it, already suspecting what he was going to see.
It was the mug shot of Leon that was posted on the FBI’s Web site.
“His name’s Leon Sharpe,” Falco said.
She awaited his reaction. Agent March’s cold blue eyes measured him, too.
Corey kept his face blank, but his mind spun.
“Come in, then,” he said, and stepped aside.
The agents filed past him. Agent March had to turn sideways to get his shoulders through the doorway.
“You can have a seat in there.” Corey indicated the formal living room on the left of the foyer.
“Thanks.” Falco swept her probing gaze around. “You have a very nice home, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“You might want to talk to your housekeeper, however,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She settled onto the sofa. Her gaze didn’t leave his face. “There’s a broken vase on the floor at the end of the hallway, near the staircase.”
Damn.
“Oh, that?” He shrugged. “My daughter knocked it over this morning, running through the house. I hadn’t gotten a chance to sweep it up yet.”
“Kids, eh?” Falco said, with a smile and shrug.
March sat beside Falco, moving with surprising grace for a man of his size. He scanned the house, too.
Corey hoped that nothing else was out of place. He was eager to get them out of there as quickly as possible. He could only imagine how nervous he looked, and he worried they would interpret his rattled nerves as guilty behavior.
Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he sat on an upholstered chair across from the agents, placing the profile photo on the coffee table between them. He nodded toward it. “I saw Leon yesterday. I ran into him at a gas station, totally by chance. I hadn’t seen him in at least sixteen years.”
“You and Mr. Sharpe used to be good friends?”
“We were friends back in Detroit. He lived across the street from us for a while.”
“From ‘us’?” She took out a pen and pad.
“Me and my late grandmother. She didn’t like Leon at all. Said he was pure trouble.”
“Was he pure trouble back then, Mr. Webb?”
“Of course he was-that’s why I never hung around him too much. When I ran into him yesterday, I knew he’d probably been involved in a lot of mess over the years. A leopard can’t change its spots, as Grandma Louise liked to say.”
“So you spoke with Sharpe at a gas station. .”
“The QuikTrip on Haynes Bridge Road, not far from here. Around eight-thirty yesterday morning, maybe eight forty-five.”
She jotted quick notes, looked up and gave him the full power of those eyes. “Kinda funny, don’t you think?”
He frowned. “What’s funny?”
“You running into an old friend from the neighborhood, totally out of the blue. Some coincidence, huh?”
He felt color spread through his face. Was she implying that he had planned to meet Leon? As if he would ever want to see Leon again, in this life or the next.
“Well, that’s what happened,” he said with an edge in his voice.
“What’d he look like?”
“He didn’t look like that picture you’ve got at all. He had dreadlocks down to his shoulders, and a thick beard, too.”
“Disguise, no doubt.” She made notes. “What was he wearing?”
“Denim overalls, old work boots. He was dressed like a house painter, which he claimed was the kind of work he was doing these days.”
She nodded curtly. “Fits his profile. He say where he’s been, where he’s staying in town?”
“He said he’s been bouncing around, following work, but didn’t name anywhere specific that he’s been, and he didn’t mention where he’s staying. I didn’t ask.”
She scowled as if she’d bitten something sour. “Anyone else with him?”
“There was some huge guy, maybe six foot five, weighed about two seventy-five, three hundred pounds. A light-skinned black man, tall Afro, probably in his late twenties. He seemed sort of off.”
“Off?”
“You know, like his elevator didn’t go all the way to the top floor. That was my initial impression of him, anyway. I didn’t get the guy’s name, but he bought Leon a pack of cigarettes. I don’t think Leon ever went inside the store.”
“Using Lurch as the front man.” She scribbled notes. “You guys got any other old pals from the neighborhood living here?”
“I don’t keep in touch with anyone from Detroit.”
The answer came out more defensive than he’d intended. Falco frowned slightly.
“Is this coincidental meeting at the gas station the only time you spoke with Sharpe?” she asked.
He paused. “Unfortunately, no.”
Her dark eyebrows arched. “No?”
“Without really thinking, I gave him my business card. I’m co-owner of Gates-Webb Security.”
“Ah, I thought the little sign in your flower bed out front looked familiar. I’ve seen those signs in yards all over the city. Business must be going well.”
“I can’t complain. But Leon came by my office yesterday evening as I was leaving. He insisted on grabbing a beer.”
“He a pushy guy?”
“He can be. We went to a bar called Shooters, about a mile down the road from my office.”
“What time?”
“I’d guess about five-thirtyish.”
“What happened there?” she asked.
Her gaze challenged him to lie.
“He asked me for money,” he said.
“He asked you for money?”
He licked his dry lips. “Yeah.”
“Why did he ask you for money, Mr. Webb?”
“He said he’d fallen on rough times. He knew about my business, so I guess he figured I had cash to spare.”
“Did you give him any?”
“I gave him the cash I had in my wallet.”
“How much was that?”
He rubbed his mouth, strained to remember. So much had happened since then it felt like two weeks ago. “About a hundred and twenty dollars, I think.”
“Was Sharpe grateful for your generosity?”
Lie to me, those dark eyes of hers said. I dare you.
“Actually, he got angry. He wanted more-for old time’s sake, he said. When I refused, he threw a beer mug against the wall and stormed out.”
She blinked. “You kidding me?”
“I wish I were.�
��
“I mean, gosh, the nerve of him to react like that when he’s the one asking you for a handout. He’s a piece of work.”
“Leon was never one for tact.”
“How much more money did Sharpe want you to give him?”
“A few thousand.”
“He hasn’t seen you in sixteen years, yet he expects you to give him thousands of dollars?” She cast a sidelong glance at her partner. “I’ve been paired up with this guy here for eighteen months, work with him daily, and he’s never bought me more than a hamburger.”
Silent, Agent March shrugged.
“Well, that’s Leon for you, expecting the world to do him favors.” Corey cracked his knuckles. “What’s he done this time? He must’ve done something, or else you wouldn’t be here asking me questions.”
Falco crossed her legs, eyes sharp as nails. “You don’t know?”
“Knowing Leon, I’m sure it involves a robbery or something.”
“You ever watched America’s Most Wanted?”
“I’m familiar with the show, but I haven’t seen it recently. I don’t watch much TV.”
“Lucky for us one of the bartenders working at Shooters last night is a big-time fan,” she said. “He positively ID’d Sharpe after Sharpe pitched a fit-pardon the pun.” She smiled.
“What? Leon was on America’s Most Wanted? Are you serious?”
He hoped that his manufactured shock appeared genuine.
“We put him on our Ten Most Wanted Fugitives List about six months ago. Three years prior in Detroit, Sharpe robbed an armored vehicle, gunned down the two couriers, got away with about thirty-five thousand.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Those two men he killed had wives, children. Hardworking, honest men like yourself.”
“Tragic,” he said, and meant it.
“The bar had your credit card receipt from last night on file,” she said. “That’s what brought us to your door this morning.”
“Oh, I was wondering about that.”
“There are records of everything these days, Mr. Webb,” she said. “It’s getting harder and harder for the bad guys to slip the net. Sharpe’s been ahead of us for a while, but eventually he’ll make a mistake. Maybe he already has. Scumbags like him always do sooner or later.”
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