"Fifty bucks to whoever's right," Malenko said. "Twenty-five a piece from whoever's wrong."
"Plus, whoever's wrong stays back to clean it up," Strand added.
"Yeah..." Harper said, then the footsteps and the voices suddenly stopped.
They had reached Beck's cell.
There was a moment of silence.
"What the fuck?" Strand shouted.
"Where the hell is he?" Malenko asked.
Beck opened the cell door across the corridor and dived out. "Right here," he said and cracked Malenko's jaw with a rock-hard forearm smash.
He dropped to the concrete floor like a sack of bricks being tossed into a river. His head hit the ground hard and he died on impact.
Harper and Strand reached for the M&P45s that were holstered on their waists.
But having one hand down by the sides of their bodies left them open and exposed.
Beck grabbed Harper by a tuft of his sandy hair and smashed his head off the steel bars of the holding cell door. His head smashed against the steel and he dropped to the ground like his legs had suddenly turned to jelly.
Strand was able to draw the gun from his belt, but in the commotion, he forgot to flick off the safety. He raised its muzzle to Beck's abdomen and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was a damp squib. Not the thunderously devastating bang he had expected, but instead more of a soft shy click.
Strand realized his mistake. He gasped. His eyes widened with fear.
Beck grinned.
Strand angled the gun upward and frantically went for its safety. But he didn't get far. Beck grabbed the gun by its barrel and whipped it from Strand's grip. Dropped it to the ground with a clank, then grabbed him by the throat and backed him into the holding cell against the concrete wall and lifted him off the ground.
Strand's feet twisted and flapped as Beck tightened his grip and choked him with crushing, vice-like force. Strand gargled and spat. His face turned red, then purple, then blue. Eventually, he exhaled and his head flopped sideward. Beck, then, let him go and he fell to the ground like a building goes down during a demolition before settling side-on in a crumpled heap on the concrete floor.
The pedophile in the cell across the corridor cheered and jeered. "That's it! You got the bastards. Yeah. You got them," he called, willing Beck on, thinking that he was going to let him out and let him go. He was wrong.
Beck glanced around inside the jail cell, looking at Strand's, Salenko's, Arshavin's and Zurawski's bodies, then turned around and looked at Harper's and Malenko's out in the corridor, before flicking his eyes up at a beaming Marty in the cell one to the left across the other side. He shook his head, knowing he had to make himself scarce. He knew it would just have been a matter of time until somebody stumbled across the station house and saw the cars outside and the lights on inside before coming in and seeing it deserted, coming through the door to the cells and finding out what had happened. He knew he couldn't leave any traces behind, not unless he wanted to spend the rest of his days behind bars. And he realized, releasing the guy from the cell opposite him wasn't an option, especially not after what he had confessed to having done.
Beck hurried down the corridor and through the door to the front of the police station, where he fished his wallet, keys, knife and gun from the trash. He stuffed his knife, gun, gloves and cell phone into his coat pockets, and his wallet and keys into the pockets of his pants. Then, he grabbed one of the white Styrofoam cups from the counter and filled it up with coffee from the pot. He colored it with creamer and drank it, while thinking the place was probably going to become, maybe, the biggest crime scene Rockwood, Michigan, had ever seen. He pictured state and federal investigators standing around casting aspersions as to what had gone down, beside an army of men wearing white suits and wiping Q-tips all over the place, taking swabs of everything and anything that was even remotely there, even a spider's shit.
He quickly realized the place would be hoaching with his DNA. Fingerprints, hair fibers, sweat droplets. Everywhere. In the holding cell, on the door handles, on the bin liner, on the cup of coffee he was holding in his hands. He also realized, if he left the place as was, it would be only a matter of time until all that DNA evidence was ran through the system and his face popped up.
Knowing what he had to do, he quickly looked around the station. He opened every door and checked every room, going through the chief's office, the gun store, the lockers, the interview rooms, the processing room, even the evidence and records archive, everywhere, until he found what he was looking for. The cops' cell phones for a start. He switched them off and pocketed them, not wanting to leave behind any electronic traces of them talking about him.
The computer server was second. He figured they had to have used the equipment to find him, so he pulled the big red lever in the control room to factory reset the lot. The surveillance system was next. He switched off all of the cameras and deleted the footage from the computer hard drives.
Then, once all traces of his electronic presence had been erased, the physical evidence was next. He pocketed a lighter from a desk drawer, and lifted a few bottles of cleaning fluid from a fully stocked cleaning cupboard. The bottles were thick and white. They had screw caps at the top and big yellow and black flammable and corrosive warning symbols down the side.
He unscrewed the caps and turned the bottles upside down, sloshing the contents all over the inside of the police station. He poured the electric blue and bright green liquid over the offices and gun store, the changing room and areas that housed the computer servers and surveillance system, and continued out to the lobby, where he poured it over desks and the floor and squirted it over the walls and doors, even covering the bin and coffee machine before tossing the empty bottles to the ground. By the time he was done, almost the entire police station was covered in the flammable, toxic and corrosive ammonia smelling liquids.
Only the cell block to cover, he grabbed some chairs from behind the desks and wedged them in all the doors to keep them open and allow the air to circulate and flow. Then, he made his way back to the cleaning cupboard and grabbed the last two bottles and made his way through the door that led to the cells.
He squirted a thick, sticky blue and green trail from lobby down the concrete floor all the way to his cell, where he covered the six men and almost all of the inside of the cell. He also squirted some onto the bars and door of the cell opposite and down one to the right from his, making sure to get the exact spot he had touched to pull and push it open. Then, he turned around and looked in the other cell at Marty.
He was standing at the cell door, watching Beck's every move. His palms sweaty, his hands tightly wrapped around the bars. The hairs on the nape of his neck were standing upright and he watched on with baited breath. There was fear on his face and terror in his eyes. He knew what Beck was fixing to do. "Let me out of here," he called.
Beck said nothing. He squeezed the rest of the cleaning fluid from the bottles onto Marty and into his cell, then dropped the empty bottles onto the ground beside the two dead dirty cops.
"Fuck. You let me out of here, you bastard," Marty snarled, wiping some of the fluid from his face. "Don't you dare do this. You let me out. And you do it now!"
Beck looked at him a long moment. His eyes were hollow. It was like he could see his victims screaming from some dark abyss in his soul. He pulled a disgusted face and shook his head. "Not on your life, asshole."
Marty watched on, shaking his head and snarling, foaming from the mouth, as Beck turned around and dipped the dead henchmen's pockets and drew a set of car keys from one guy's pants, then pulled the lighter from his pocket and flicked his thumb over its flint wheel to spark a hissing orange and blue flame.
"Don't you dare do this," Marty spat. "Don't you dare fucking leave me in here like this. Don't you fucking dare."
"You can burn in hell, you worthless piece of shit," Beck said to him and turned around and tossed the light into his own cell, then hurried back down the co
rridor to the door.
The fire caught like an STI lurking at a swinger's party. The henchmen's bodies lit up like a couple of old dried logs and flames engulfed the holding cell floor and roared up the walls, scorching everything they touched.
Marty watched on in horror. His eyes wide and red and teary. The heat was immense. He could feel it hot on his skin. And he could see it inching closer toward his cell. He rushed to the back of the cell and curled up in a terrified, trembling ball, his back pressed against the wall, and hissed, "Bastard. Fucking bastard."
Beck looked back and grinned at the sight of the sick fuck, a feeble, frightened quivering mess, probably in the same state as he had forced his victims into, then ducked out the door to the front of the station house. The flames roared behind him, illuminating the cells to a bright orange glow. He heard Marty screaming, as they unforgivingly swirled through the bars of his cell door and licked across his body. He left the door to the cell block open, so that fire would spread, and hurried out the front door to the parking lot.
Outside in the lot, Beck found the henchmen's vehicle. A black Chevy Impala. It was parked up in a spot beside the police cruisers. He unlocked it with the key and climbed in. Started its engine and put it into its reverse gear and backed it out of the spot. The fire roared out through the police station windows as he turned onto Fort Street.
The scene will end up just as I hoped. All traces of me being there, gone. That's for damn sure. The fire is seeing to that, he thought and smiled, then slipped his cell phone from his pocket and unlocked its screen.
It flashed up with a multitude of alerts. One of them was a missed call from a random number a few hours ago with a matching voicemail alert, he figured it was Naomi confirming her location. Just like he had told her to do.
But the other five missed calls bothered him. They were from Naomi Hefter's cell. All of them within the last half-hour, each about five minutes apart. And all with a matching voicemail alert.
Annoyed that she had obviously turned on her cell phone, but concerned as to why she was frantically trying to call him, he dialled his voicemail and the first message began.
He had been right. It was Naomi calling from a payphone.
"Hey, Joe. It's Naomi," she had said. "I'm at a Value Inn. At Dearborn. Call me when you get this, or something."
He heard her hang up, then the next message began.
It was from Naomi's cell number. It began with a chilling silence, like she was trying to find the words. Then, eventually, she spoke. But her intonation was vastly different to before.
"Joe," She said. "Somebody has left a message on my phone. They've got him." She broke up. "Oh my God. They've got him. And they're going to hurt him. Jesus. I need your help."
The message cut off and a robotic female voice kicked in. It told him the time of the next message and the caller's phone number. It was Naomi, again. Only a few minutes after the last call.
"Joe. Please pick up. I need you." She became frustrated and groaned, then ended the call.
The robotic-sounding woman's voiced kicked in, again, and the next message followed. Again, it was Naomi. But, this time, it was nothing more than the abrupt beep a cell phone makes when the call hangs up a second after a phone cuts to voicemail.
He allowed the last message to play. Again, it was Naomi.
"They have my son, Joe. And they're not going to let him go until I pay up. Fuck. Please, call me back. Please, Joe. Call me back."
Beck sucked a deep breath and sat in a sobering moment of silence, staring out the windshield at the empty road ahead after the message ended, as the robotic female voice told him that was the end of his messages.
One thought flashed through his mind, one thing, only.
If they've got her son, she's in real trouble.
THIRTY-NINE
Beck dialled Naomi's cell number and placed his cell phone on loudspeaker, laying it down on the center console.
Naomi answered after the first ring. It was almost as if she had been waiting for him calling.
"Joe? What the actual fuck? Didn't you get my calls? Or my messages? I've been trying to reach you. Where the hell have you been?"
"Jail."
"What?"
"Jail," he said, again, like it was nothing, like it was a perfectly logical place to be, and about as common as going for bread and milk from the grocery store.
"Jail? Why the hell were you in jail?"
"A couple of shady cops picked me up," Beck said.
"What? Why?"
"It was an attempt to take me out," he answered. "They 'arrested' me outside a nightclub in Detroit, said I assaulted that guy in your salon. They drove me down to a place called Rockwood and threw me in a holding cell. Held me there until Polanski's men turned up to kill me."
"Jesus Christ. What nightclub? Who's Polanski?"
"Place called Magenta. In downtown Detroit. Vladimir Polanski owns it." He paused. "He's the one who's behind it all. The men that came into your salon demanding the money last night, they work for him. Polanski's the one who thinks you owe him four grand. He's the one who'll have your son. He's the one who sent those cops to grab me, who tried to have me killed."
"How do you know this?"
"Because I asked around. I got the name from a guy named Rijkaard. He owns a hardware store near where your salon is, well, was. He said he's been paying Polanski for years. Four grand a month. Every month."
Naomi said nothing. Beck heard her swallowing.
"After that, I spoke to a woman who knows Darius Adamzcuk. Turns out Adamczuk and Polanski are connected. They're both in the drug business. Adamczuk sells drugs in Polanski's nightclubs."
"Great. So, it's a bunch of drug dealers who think I owe them money that have my son?"
"Looks like it."
"And what about these cops? Who are they?"
"Strand, Harper and Malenko were their names. Three guys from Rockwood PD. Corrupt. Dirty as a whore on all fours. They were deep in Polanski's pockets. He sent them after me, for damn sure."
"Jesus. How? How do they even know about you?"
"I don't know."
"Jesus," Naomi said, again. "If you were put in a cell, how come you're still alive? How did you get out?"
"Because, I killed Polanski's men before they killed me. Then, I fought my way out."
"What do you mean you fought your way out?"
"Lets just say those three dirty cops have been sent into a permanent retirement."
Naomi said nothing.
"Anyway, forget about me. Tell me about your son. Tell me about the message," Beck said. "What did they say?"
"Just what I said on the messages I left you."
The was a beat of silence.
"There must have been more than that. Tell me exactly what they said."
Naomi sighed, worried. "Somebody called my cell while I had it switched off. I think it was around six o'clock. It was off, so I didn't answer. I saw it flash up when I turned it on. But it was a withheld number, so I couldn't see who it was or call it back. But it was a man. He sounded Eastern European. He left a message. Said that they had my son, Josh. He said that I owed him four thousand dollars. He said that he wanted it tonight. Or else..."
She sucked a deep breath rather than finishing her sentence.
"Or else, what?"
She said nothing.
"Naomi. Or else, what?" Beck asked, again.
"Or else, they'll kill him."
Beck sighed.
Naomi sobbed. "They can't kill him, Joe. None of this is his fault. He's just an innocent little boy. But the bastard is demanding I pay money I don't have. What am I going to do?"
"Did they say when or where you've to pay them?"
"No. But a random cell number sent me two pictures. Then, it messaged me again after the call and give me an address."
"Pictures of what?"
"My son," Naomi wept. "What do you think?"
Beck looked up and sighed. "Did he look
OK?"
She took a moment to answer. "No. Yes. No. I don't know."
Beck grimaced. "The pictures, do you still have them?"
"Yes."
"And the message with address?"
"Yes," she said, again.
"And there's been no other contact since?"
"Nothing."
"No more calls or messages?"
"No."
"OK. "Good. Keep it all on your phone. Are you still at the Value Inn?"
"Yeah. I'm in room thirteen. I don't even have four grand to give them, Joe. What am I going to do?"
"Right now, nothing. Just stay where you are. And don't worry. I'm coming for you. I'm going to help. Just sit tight and wait until I get there."
Beck ended the call and pushed his foot to the floor. He gunned the Impala's engine and headed northbound on I-75 toward Detroit.
A short drive later, feeling hungry and aware that hunger led to weakness, he cut off at exit 37 and steered the Camaro into the parking lot of an Arby's off West Frontage Road. He quickly ran out and ordered two smoked brisket sandwiches to-go, handed over twelve bucks and collected them a couple of minutes later and made his way back out to the car.
The sandwiches were wrapped up in white greaseproof paper. Coming as toasted, bakery-style buns, they were piled high with tender, smoky brisket and topped with Gouda cheese, crispy onions and lashings of smokehouse BBQ sauce and mayonnaise. It was a double helping of love on a roll.
Beck fired up the Impala's engine and set back off, devouring them both on the way back to Detroit.
He cut off I-75 via the Fisher Freeway, taking the exit slip onto West Fisher Service Drive, tossed the empty sandwich wrappers out of the window onto the street and turned onto Michigan Avenue.
He drove onto the forecourt of a Marathon gas station and nosed the Impala into a slot by the kiosk door. He killed the engine and stepped out, dumping it there, key still in the slot.
He walked off out onto the road and down the sidewalk to his black Camaro that was still sitting parked up by the side of the road a few hundred yards down from the Magenta nightclub. About an inch of frost and snow had built up on its hood, roof and windshield.
Easy Money Page 27