Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  “Because we believe you can help us bust this ring.” Yep.

  “Why me?” (Rule: Never ask a question you don't already know the answer.) Because I'll pay the ransom.

  “Because you're the mark, Tucker. You pay the ransom. The scam's on you, don't you see?"

  “Yeah, I see."

  Minutes pass before either of us says anything more. I have to absorb this. Roll it around for a moment. I'd come to this meeting thinking it would be a complete waste of my time - especially with all that's on my plate already. This, I didn't expect. Why would I? I wouldn't have thought this in a million years. I appreciate James shutting his trap, so I can take a moment and mull this over.

  “Who's doing this James? Is Ebba or Terry involved? I mean are they part of this scam group?"

  “No, we're pretty sure neither of them is involved. Sometimes the prisoner is part of the scam group but other times, not. And in this case, we think Ebba was simply duped into bringing you along on this trip. It happens. As far as Terry's concerned, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You were the mark, Tucker, and the idea was to make the Spanish Prisoner someone you'd care about enough to put up the ransom. Originally, that was Ebba."

  “Originally?” I say.

  “Yes, but this operation went south from the get-go when you were tossed from the flight. It would've been okay had you taken the Air France flight and made your way to Barcelona, but you didn't do that. You did something totally unexpected by hooking up with Monica and taking the flight to London then training down through France. No one saw that one coming."

  “Including me."

  “It was just one of those things. Frankly, speaking, no one expected you to be such a whore dog. When you two finally turned up, the plan again looked viable, but it seemed Monica stole some of your affection from Ebba to where no one was sure you might not sacrifice Ebba, now a bird in the bush, for Monica, a bird in the hand.

  And you're a birdbrain, buddy, I’m thinking.

  "So, the plan was adjusted where Ebba and Monica would both be snatched, thereby ensuring you'd play along and pay. But, that also blew apart when Monica jumped from the limo."

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Let me finish tracking through this, Tucker, because it's important to follow the series of events as they unfolded,” he insists.

  I was going to tell him they'd corrected again when Monica got snatched last night. But, fuck him.

  “As I said, Terry was a collateral capture, so to speak, only because she happened to be in the limo too."

  “But, I was also supposed to be in the limo."

  “But, you were late, and they didn't want you in the limo in the first place; you were the mark so as soon as they had both Ebba and Monica on board it was time to go."

  I was about to tell James my delay was due to Nanette's little antics, but I didn't see the point. It wasn't material, and it was none of his business anyhow, so I let it go.

  “But, Ebba left a note telling me they'd gone to the El Quatre Gats. Had I shown up there, what would they have done then?"

  “They never made it to the El Quatre Gats, so it wouldn't have mattered."

  “Okay, James, I give you credit. You do seem to have a lot of answers, but answer me this. Who're the scammers?"

  “Tucker, if we had absolute, irrefutable proof, we'd have them behind bars right now."

  “You don't know. That’s it, right? "

  “We have suspects."

  “And they are?"

  “This is where I need you to swear to me you'll keep this information to yourself, Tucker, because if you don't, and they're alerted; they'll surely go to ground, and we'll be back to square one. We'd probably never see Ebba or Terry again. Their lives would surely be worthless to the kidnappers at that point, even a liability, and I shouldn't have to tell you how that would go."

  Fuck you, I'm thinking.

  “I understand, James, just keep in mind it's me putting up the ransom money. So who are the suspects?"

  “Patrick."

  “Captain Pat, huh? Doesn't surprise me there, I guess."

  “Didn't think it would. Randy maybe."

  “He works for Pat so that might follow, I guess. (But, I doubt it.) Who else?"

  “That's everyone you know."

  “Whaddaya mean by that? Everyone I know. Who else?"

  “Patrick's girlfriend, Susan, someone you haven't met, so you don't know her is what I mean."

  “Who else? What about Nanette? Is she a suspect?"

  “No, she's definitely not a suspect. We've had her checked out from here to Sunday. She's totally clean."

  And not even a single mention of Libica, and here she's the queen bee of Spanish Prisoner scams no less. That doesn't make any sense. And not a single mention about Rakim and his group either, or even anything about the train incident. Shouldn't this guy know more than he's telling? Maybe he does and like me, he's not saying. Sure makes for a lot of guessing. This is worse than living in the South; at least there you can count on everybody talking behind your back.

  "This is unreal," I say.

  “Yeah, I know it must seem that way. Unfortunately, there're two women kidnapped which makes it pretty damn real doesn't it?” he says.

  “You're not kidding it does,” I say locking onto his eyes, resolutely solemn.

  No matter if James and Lisa are Laurel and Hardy and clueless, what they do know brings a whole new dimension to what I'm up against - a two-front war no less? Question now is: What do I do about it?

  Monica's last words to me run through my head all over again, “why don't we get out of here, Tucker, go someplace safe where none of this can touch us? Disappear and leave all this behind. We can start a new life, just you and me, together. Forget all about this insanity. Who needs it?"

  Wouldda, couldda, shouldda.

  Why not? Blow this Popsicle stand. Except that, I can't. It's too late for that now. I can't go without Monica. I need her. And it's right now at this very moment I’m realizing she's the most important person, there is to me. I have to get her back, no matter what the cost. To hell with the lottery money, they can have it if it'll bring Monica back.

  “So, what do you propose we do, James? How do we get Ebba and Terry back?"

  “We do what you'd said at last night's meeting that you'd do, pay the ransom."

  Figures. Why would I expect original thinking from a government bureaucrat?

  “Only we set a trap with the ransom drop and snare these people,” he says.

  “And how do we ensure we get Ebba and Terry back?” I ask.

  “Don't worry about that right now, we'll have it covered; we've worked out several scenarios. What we needed first is your cooperation and now that we have it, I can go back to my people with thumbs up, and we can move forward on this. You and I'll need to meet again, probably this evening, and then I can go over the details, and you can give us your input. You do realize though, Tucker, there is a degree of risk to these things. I mean personal risk to you."

  “Don't worry about me, James, I've been trained by the best,” I say.

  “And who would that be?” he asks a bit taken back.

  “Hollywood, of course."

  “Ha. Yeah, but in real-life things don't always work out so cleanly as in the movies."

  “You mean the girl might not get rescued?"

  “Oh, I think the girl will be rescued here; it's you who we might not be able to rescue."

  “Why do you say that?"

  “Because this is a Spanish Prisoner scam and typically that not only means the mark loses his money; he's framed up too so he can't talk, and the scammers walk."

  “Oh. Well that sucks."

  “Sure does, which is why it’s so hard to bust these people. Fortunately, for you, we know going in you're the victim and not the perpetrator. Even so, as you alluded to a little while ago, we're not in the good ole U.S. of A. here. We have influence, but that's about it. The Spanish authorities ha
ve the final say, so as a precaution . . .

  He hands me an envelope.

  "I'm giving you this air ticket just in case you get into a pickle and need to get out of the country fast."

  “You're kidding? To where?"

  “Not kidding. To Morocco."

  “Morocco, why Morocco?"

  “Because it's close, just a quick jump across the Mediterranean from Gibraltar at the southern tip of Spain."

  “I know where the fuck Morrocco is, James."

  “Okay, then you know where to go if things get iffy. We have people there, safe houses where you can stay until we can get you back into the States without any interference from the Spanish authorities."

  “Isn't this a bit extreme?"

  “Maybe, but better safe than not. Just keep the ticket, Tucker. Keep it on your person at all times. If you don't need it, fine, but if you do, you'll be glad you have it."

  “Okay, I suppose.” I pocket the envelope.

  “Good, look, Tucker, I need to get back; I've got a lot of work to do. I'll call you later. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but at least you now have more of a “macro view” of the situation. Look, I'm really glad you're on board,” he says standing and offering his hand. I take it for a shake. Then we part, and I go back to the El Raval apartment.

  Yeah, I do have better macro view thanks. Better than you know, I'm thinking.

  ***

  Back at the apartment, and let me tell you this is one creepy neighborhood. The streets are so narrow walking through them your shoulders practically brush the four-story buildings flanking both sides, so claustrophobic it can feel like they're closing in to crush you like the shrinking cell in Poe's, The Pit and the Pendulum. Sunshine, even on the sunniest days, many times, can't find its way to street level (or maybe doesn't want to), so much of the El Raval lives under a permanent shroud of dystopian twilight. It can seem pretty grim all right. Buildings as old as time push against you like the walls of a citadel and above a canopy of balconies, and clotheslines strung with laundry hanging like dead flags from long ago wars. Creepy alleyways smelling of urine and feces only someone bent on suicide would dare to enter, and narrow cobblestone streets lined with overflowing trash cans against eternal walls and roll-down metal security doors tattooed with riots of graffiti create an endless maze so confounding it could have inspired the roach motel slogan, "they check in . . . but they don't check out."

  And that's daytime hours or what passes for daytime when any natural light might, by sheer accident, find its way through to street level. At night though, when all has been enveloped in a darkness so thick, you could be fooled into thinking you're walking Main Street Disneyland because you can't see what's around you, out comes every variation of incarnated, bi-pedal, animal, as there are species of insects to remind you this is still, El Raval.

  Back in the 1920's a journalist described the El Raval as:

  ". . . the district of sinners, crooks and toughs, a maggot hill, a cesspit and cavern, a den of criminals. It is fetishized, endowed with causal powers, apparently destroying all moral and physical life within it . . . a terrible centre for infection, the pestulant (sic) bottom of a sewer, with its smell of sin and affliction. Many of the area’s inhabitants mutated into a subhuman race. Everyone has funereal features, the look of having recently been in hospital, the appearance of death. They don’t eat. They nourish themselves with alcohol, morphine, ether, ‘coke’ and wine.' "

  And just about as scary as walking through the El Raval neighborhood is entering the apartment through the front door and standing in front of the peephole without either a gas mask or raincoat. So, I drop to about two-thirds of my height and ease up until I can flip the cap over the fingerprint reader and lay my thumb there. Click, the door unlocks and I walk in on bent knees.

  “You cannot stand, Señor Blue? Back problem? I suppose for a man of your seniority it is not an uncommon ailment.”

  I nearly jump outta my skin before realizing its Dick.

  “What do you have, a free pass through my security system?" I ask.

  “But, of course, it is my apartment."

  “S'pose you've gone through all my things too?"

  “Naturally, and there's nothing new from last night when I had them moved from the Hotel Arts to this apartment."

  “Oh, yeah, right.” I'd forgotten about that.

  “Now, Tucker, my friend, tell me, why are you speaking with Special Agent Culpepper?"

  “You know about that?"

  “I know all, Tucker; that's why you pay me. But, now I am afraid we may have to discontinue our relationship."

  "Why?" I ask astonished.

  "Tucker, it is not my policy to work with your government's policing agencies or any government's policing agencies for that matter. You must understand with most of my clientele, this policy is a good thing. If I were to change it, I would lose valuable business, and I am in business to make a profit, not to work for governments. They are not profitable."

  “I see but I think you've misread my meeting with Special Agent Culpepper. I understand your concern, but had you been listening closely; you should know that, first of all, I didn't know he was with Homeland Security. He wanted to recruit me to help them bust a group of airline personnel that are evidently perpetrating Spanish Prisoner scams. According to agent Culpepper the two flight attendants I'd told you were missing from our group are apparently victims of this scam, and I'm the mark. I'm to pay the ransom. Agent Culpepper is simply asking me to cooperate with him to apprehend this group. However, the truth is, I'm not very confident the information he has is reliable, and I'm reluctant to work with him even though I left it I would. Fact is, he struck me as being somewhat incompetent."

  “They are idiots,” Dick says.

  "Succinctly put," I chuckled. "I didn't want to close the door entirely because he did at least alert me to the existence of this group, and I'm their target. I'd been assuming all along it was Doctor Drusilla Libica behind all of this, and the one responsible for Ebba and Terry's kidnapping. I still believe she's the one who had me mugged and Monica kidnapped last night. I wanted to leave the door open with Agent Culpepper, in case he can provide me with further useful insight, that's all. If you still feel you must resign our association, I understand, but I can assure you I'm neither working for, nor with, Homeland Security. And I can also assure you they will never know of your existence or our relationship. Not through me."

  I need Dick, so while I'm at it; I give him the rest of the enchilada and tell him about my trip to Perpignan and meeting with Rakim and his crew, and our agreement to cooperate. I also tell him about the lottery ticket and Rakim had verified it was a fake used only to lure Libica into the open.

  "So you see, the real reason Libica had her boys stalking us, and why she kidnapped Monica last night, was to get her hands on the ticket. That's been her objective all along, and she'll do anything to get it, and when I say anything, I mean anything."

  With that I pull out the photo of the flayed girl she sent this morning and show it to him.

  “Ay Caramba!”

  "You see, besides Monica, Libica also has the two women. This is what she's done to one of 'em. I don't know which. I received this in my email only this morning."

  "But, how do you know for sure it is one of them?" he asks.

  I think about that question and answer, "I guess I don't, really. But, who else would it be?"

  "I do not know. Is it possible you were sent that photo to shock you into action? To pay the ransom?"

  "I suppose, but still, it could be one of them," I say, "at least, that's what they want me to believe."

  "One of the two original missing women you mean, not Señora Monica?"

  "No, it could be any one of them."

  "I do not think so Señor. I think the photo is a fake."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because hostages are valuable when they are alive, not dead."

  "Good point. But, t
hen wouldn't you think they'd send another ransom demand asking for more money now that they have a third hostage?"

  "They still may, but I think they will wait and let you worry over the photo for a while first. Who sent the email with the photo?"

  "Libica sent it or one of her minions," I say then, think about it. "Jesus. I don't think I even looked at the email address to be honest. I just assumed it was from Libica using Ebba's email address. After I saw the photo, I slammed the computer shut and ran into the bathroom and vomited. When I came back I just threw together a reply to the ransom email from yesterday that I'd pay. Let's take a look now."

  I get the computer and boot up and go to my Outlook. "It's from an anonymous email service; one that doesn't accept replies. It's untraceable. So, it didn't come from Ebba's email address after all. It must have come from Libica."

  "Why do you say that? Agent Culpepper confirms the flight crew people are the ones who kidnapped the two women, and you've already received a ransom demand from them for two million Euros - one for each woman. And the ransom note came from the email of this girlfriend of yours . . ."

  "Ebba," I say.

  "Sorry, Tucker. I lose track," he snickers. "Yes, Ebba. And you replied to the email this morning when you agreed to make the ransom payment, right?"

  "Right. At least, I'm pretty sure it came from her email. Let me check to be sure." I go to the sent email and yes; it was a reply to Ebba's original ransom demand, and yes, it originated from her email account.

  "And you've said yourself this Libica wants the lottery ticket, she wouldn't care about a measly two million euros when the lottery ticket is worth sixty times that. However, the flight crew scammers have no knowledge of the lottery ticket, which is why they'd be the ones to demand the two million. Therefore, it only stands to reason if the flight crew scammers have the two kidnapped women, and the Libica woman does not . . . it can only mean Libica did not send the photo. It would not make sense for her to sacrifice her one hostage if she wants to make a trade with you for the ticket."

  "So, are you saying the photo must have come from the flight crew scammers?"

  "It would appear so but none of it makes perfect sense."