Mortal Crimes 1

by Various Authors

  Brilliant response, she told herself.

  He headed for the door.

  “Wait,” she called. “Tell Rosie to look for a Ukrainian company, too. I don’t even know if there is one, but … it’s a hunch.”

  “Will do.”

  As he continued out into the hallway, she took a deep breath, then said, “Mitchell—I owe you one.”

  He turned and pierced her with an unreadable look.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll collect.” He flashed her another smile and left the room.

  She watched him disappear down the hall and imagined what his lips would feel like pressed against hers. How his mouth would taste.

  Stop that.

  She jumped to her feet and searched the room for a distraction from the emotions she wasn’t ready to admit she had. Her eyes fell on the iPhone. She scooped it up gratefully and unlocked the screen to check her text message. And every lustful thought of Mitchell was wiped from her mind in an instant.

  She didn’t recognize the sender’s number but she recognized the grainy picture. It was no guinea pig. It was Joe. He was stretched out on a dark floor. His eyes were closed. His mouth gaped open. The picture accompanied a terse, to-the-point message:

  You have a choice: your husband or your case.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I sent the message.” Franklin’s voice sounded dull and dead to his own ears, as heavy as the weight that had settled in the pit of his stomach when he’d seen the man’s most recent text.

  He’d just finished choking down an early lunch when his phone had dinged to announce the arrival of the picture of the man’s newest captive along with instructions for Franklin to forward it on to the lawyer with a very specific message.

  He wondered if he’d go through the rest of his life cringing and tensing every time he heard the sound of a text arriving.

  “Good.”

  Franklin hesitated. If the man wasn’t going to bring up his mother, he had no choice but to push the issue. He inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and plunged ahead.

  “Now, what about my mother?”

  “She’s resting comfortably.”

  The man delivered the news neutrally, like a hospital nurse reporting the condition of a post-op patient.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  The man laughed.

  Franklin’s grip on the cell phone tightened, and he struggled to keep his emotions lidded.

  “I know what you meant, Franklin. I told you. Change of plans. Momma’s not ready to come home just yet. Besides, now she has a friend to keep her company.”

  Company. Franklin ignored the acid wash of guilt that hit his throat at the mention of Joe Jackman. He couldn’t get hung up on the unavoidable fact that he was responsible for Jackman’s current predicament. He hadn’t had a choice.

  “When, then? What more do you want from me?” he demanded.

  “Don’t whine. It’s unbecoming. If the lawyer is smart, she will find a way to lose her case. Then, as I said in my message, her husband will be released—along with your mother.”

  “Lose the case? But the trial doesn’t start until next week. You’ve had my mother since last Monday. She needs to come home. She’s an old woman.”

  “She’s fine.” The man dismissed his pleas.

  Franklin could tell by his tone that the man was getting ready to end the call.

  “Wait—don’t go. Please. What if Higgins isn’t smart? What if she doesn’t throw the case? What then?”

  Silence.

  Franklin asked the question knowing the man wouldn’t say that he’d honor his promise and release his mother, but he had to ask anyway, because an impossible sliver of hope still existed somewhere inside him.

  After a very long pause, the man said, “That will be regrettable for Mr. Jackman and your mother then, won’t it?”

  Franklin pushed on. “What if she calls the police?”

  The man exhaled loudly. “I suggest you see to it that she doesn’t.”

  The soft click of the man ending the call sounded in his ear, and the remaining shard of hope he’d been carrying around shattered into a thousand pieces. He stared at the silent phone for a long moment then chucked it at the wall.

  His helplessness overwhelmed him, threatening to smother him.

  There was nothing he could do—except hope that Aroostine Higgins stayed the course after she saw the video of her husband.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The door groaned. Joe turned away from the small window. He didn’t know how long he’d stood there, his forehead pressed against the cold pane of glass, staring out into the dense woods, hoping to see someone—a hiker, a hunter, anyone who could get him out of the cabin. But all he’d seen were two deer and a rabbit.

  The quiet, empty woods outside the window had reminded him of Aroostine. And thinking about her made him feel almost worse than being locked in a log cabin. Almost.

  The door opened inward, fast, and a tall figure stepped through the doorway, closing the door securely behind him. It was a man, tense and alert, ready for trouble judging by his wide-legged stance and the raised shotgun he held.

  Joe eyed him from his spot by the window. The shotgun was a smart choice, regardless of whether this guy was an accomplished marksman or a rank novice with a gun. And, judging by the stiff way he handled the shotgun, Joe guessed he was closer to the latter than the former. Not that it would matter: the shotgun would be easy to use and would easily hit a target, especially in a confined space like this one.

  “Where’s Jen?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.

  The man shot him a quizzical look. Then understanding dawned on his lined face. He laughed—it was a guttural, harsh sound, completely at odds with his expensive haircut, cashmere sweater, black slacks, and highly polished, square-toed shoes.

  “Jen? You mean the whore whose name you’ve been crying like a baby calling for his mother? I assume she’s in some filthy trailer hunched over a computer spending her fee. Virtual payment, who ever imagined,” the man mused, talking more to himself than to Joe.

  Whore? Jen was a prostitute. Embarrassment and self-disgust washed over Joe. He’d been targeted by a hooker. All she’d had to do was feign interest in his stories and engage in a modicum of flirting, and he’d walked right into a trap.

  But why would anyone want to ensnare him? Master carpentry wasn’t a field known for its cutthroat rivalry. And he was a go-along-to-get-along kind of guy. He just didn’t have the sort of personality that would draw someone’s ire—at least not so much that they’d go through the trouble of hiring a call girl to lure him to a remote wooded cabin to be held captive. Yet, here he was.

  “Who are you?”

  “This is not your concern.”

  Joe thought he heard the hint of an accent. Eastern European? Russian? He couldn’t pinpoint it. But this guy clearly hadn’t grown up in Pennsylvania.

  He took a closer look at the man.

  Late forties, maybe early fifties. Deep tan, with the attendant lines that habitual tanning caused. Short hair, brown, graying at the temples. He looked fit, tall and lean, but not obviously muscled. He could be a cycler or golfer, maybe a skier—some expensive sport for rich people. Everything about the man said ‘money.’ He looked out of place in the simple, rustic cabin.

  In fact, he reminded Joe of many of his clients: wealthy New Yorkers who had plunked down hundreds of thousands of dollars to renovate old farmhouses so they could have a country home to get away from their Manhattan lives.

  This guy couldn’t be some crazed Wall Street banker holding a grudge because his hand-crafted reclaimed wood bookcase had been delivered a few weeks late or some crap, could he?

  Joe studied the man’s face. No. He’d never seen this particular rich guy before.

  The man looked back at him, impassive and patient. He showed no sign of worry that Joe might recognize him or be able to describe him later. Joe filed that scrap of worrisome information away
for later consideration.

  “Why am I here? That is my concern.” Joe let a hint of steel edge the question.

  The man raised a brow and seemed to consider his answer.

  “All you need to know is that your wife needs to make the right decision.”

  “My wife?”

  The mention of Aroostine stunned him, sending a wave of shock through his body.

  “Yes, your wife. The lawyer. You do remember you have a wife, yes? I know you were quite eager to forget about your wife with the whore. But as I understand it, your divorce is not final. Aroostine Higgins is your wife. And she’s still in love with you. That’s lucky for you. It may save your life.”

  The rest of the man’s words barely registered as Aroostine’s name ran in a loop in Joe’s mind: Aroostine, Aroostine, Aroostine.

  He realized the man was waiting for him to say something. He cleared his throat and found his voice.

  “Is she in trouble?”

  The man smiled. “Your wife? No, Mr. Jackman, she’s not the one in trouble. You are. Now, come. It’s time for you to meet Mrs. Chang.”

  He covered Joe with the shotgun one-handed and reached behind him to open the door to the other room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Aroostine splashed her face with water and patted it dry with one of the rough, unbleached paper towels from the dispenser. Then she gripped the edge of the vanity and stared at herself in the mirror. It would be obvious to anyone who so much as glanced at her that something was very wrong. Her face was pale, her pupils were dilated, and tension seeped from every pore.

  Keep it together.

  She exhaled and let go of the vanity. She dug around in her purse and found an old lipstick. She uncapped it and twisted the tube until the deep red nub of makeup rose above the container. It had been banging around in her purse for ages, a freebie from the Clinique counter, not her color. It would do.

  She lined her lips then filled them in. Folded and kissed the paper towel to blot them, just like her mother had taught her. Then she employed another of Mom Higgins’ tricks: she rubbed her ring finger over the lipstick and dotted each of her cheeks red. Then used her fingertips to blend the color into her skin—instant vitality.

  She examined the result. Progress. She no longer looked like a corpse.

  She tossed the paper towel and gathered her resolve. It seemed clear to her that she had to continue to act as though everything was fine. At least until she could come up with a plan.

  To do what? She had no idea.

  But for now, her focus was on keeping her emotions in check.

  She flashed her reflection an insincere smile and chucked the lipstick back into her bag.

  Time to call her motherin-law.

  She pushed open the restroom door and strode resolutely down the hallway, extending her long legs and walking at a rapid clip, head upright, eyes ahead.

  Her hands began to shake once she was back inside the safety of her office. She pushed the door closed and fumbled with her cell phone.

  Dottie Jackman answered on the second ring.

  Aroostine could picture her, sitting at the metal table in her kitchen, folding laundry, her attention fixated on the early evening news. She’d probably sighed deeply at the interruption of the ringing phone, but there was no hint of irritation in her voice.

  “Jackman residence.”

  “Hi, Dottie. It’s Aroostine.”

  She walked behind her desk and looked out the window down into the gray, cold Anacostia River snaking through the city, cutting off the have-nots from the influence, power, and money that pervaded their hometown.

  “Aroostine! It’s been ages!”

  Dottie’s extreme pleasure at hearing from her daughter-in-law answered one question. Joe hadn’t mentioned the divorce to his parents. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to break the news. Not now.

  “How are you? And Chuck?”

  She forced the niceties out through gritted teeth to keep from screaming that Joe had been abducted and was in danger and it was all her fault.

  “Oh, you know Chuck. It’s all of twenty degrees out, but he’s out there in his workshop, tinkering away. Like father, like son.”

  “Speaking of Joe—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of him, but I haven’t been able to. Do you think you could pop over to his place and check on him? It’s flu season, you know.”

  She knew Dottie knew. The woman was obsessed with influenza. She started talking about the coming year’s predicted strain in September and didn’t stop diagnosing everyone she encountered as a flu victim until sometime in April. Dottie would burst a blood vessel if Aroostine ever told her about the region’s near-miss with H17N10.

  “Don’t I know it. Mary Elizabeth Murray was sneezing in the checkout line at the Shopping Kart last week. I’m thinking about getting some of those little paper masks to wear when I do my grocery shopping like they do in Asia. You should consider it, too, riding that subway system down there with all those people.”

  Dottie’s voice grew breathless as her imagination geared up. Time to bring her back around.

  “That’s a great idea. Listen, about Joe, can you check on him?”

  “Oh, honey, Joe’s not sick. He’s out of town.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Well, that I don’t know. But Chuck drove by and noticed Joe’s truck at the Hole in the Wall early this morning. Now, you know, Joe’s not one to go drinking in the day. Not like his Great-Uncle Pete. Lord, that man had a nip with his breakfast and just kept—”

  “Joe was at the bar?”

  Interrupting someone who was speaking was one of her biggest peeves. She thought it was rude beyond all imagination. But Joe had told her early in their relationship that knowing when to interrupt his mother wasn’t a matter of being impolite, it was a matter of self-preservation. She’d resisted as long as she could, but after she’d been seated next to Dottie at a birthday party and had clocked one story about a chicken that laid eggs with double yolks at twenty-three minutes, forty seconds, she’d decided that a well-timed interruption here and there was an acceptable vice.

  “No, no. The bartender told Chuck that he’d been in the night before, but he’d left with a … friend,” Dottie explained.

  She could tell from Dottie’s hesitation that the friend has been of the female variety, but she didn’t comment.

  “So, he left his truck there and went out of town? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Well, honey, I get the sense it was a sudden trip. Chuck went by the house to check on him. He wasn’t there, but Rufus just went nuts when he saw Chuck. Poor fella was out of water and starving for food.”

  “Now, you know, Joe wouldn’t go out of town without making arrangements for Rufus.”

  “Don’t you worry about your dog, honey. We brought him back here. He’s just fine. All curled up at my feet, snoring so loud I can barely hear what the weather guy is saying.” Dottie chuckled.

  “Oh, that’s nice of you. Thanks, Dottie. I still don’t understand how you know Joe’s out of town. Did you call him?”

  “Well, no. Turns out he left his cell phone at the house. Chuck noticed it on the charger. We were thinking maybe Joe decided to surprise you with a visit,” Dottie offered, her voice tentative.

  Aroostine was about to point out that Joe couldn’t very well walk to D.C., so leaving his car at the bar more or less ruled an impromptu trip. The closest public transportation to Walnut Bottom was the bus depot fifty miles away. And she knew for an absolute fact that he wouldn’t just leave Rufus behind.

  Then it dawned on her. Dottie thought Joe was having an affair. She probably thought he’d left the bar with some floozy and had gone back to her place. Her motherin-law was trying to spare her feelings about her husband’s sleepover.

  She felt her cheeks flush. But if Dottie wanted to pretend, she’d play along.

  “Oh, maybe. That would be nice
surprise. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.”

  While she matched Dottie’s pabulum with her own, her mind raced ahead: Joe had left the bar with a woman. Who was she? How was she involved in his kidnapping? Who could she get to help her find out?

  Dottie babbled on about how much Joe and the rest of the Jackmans missed her and how they looked forward to her ‘temporary assignment’ ending so she could come home. Left unsaid was the hope that her return would put an end to Joe’s excursions with female friends.

  She ‘hmmed’ and ‘uh-huhed’ her way through the rest of the conversation, only half-listening while she weighed her options. Calling the authorities was out until she had a better sense of who she was dealing with. She considered reaching out to Sasha—she had unofficial connections to agencies that didn’t even officially exist—but she decided to keep that particular card in her pocket unless and until she needed to play it. For now, she’d handle this situation on her own.

  She said her goodbyes to her motherin-law and ended the call. Then she pulled up the text and stared hard at the picture of Joe while she steeled herself for what would come next.

  She punched in the cell phone number that had sent the text. Then she held her breath and listened to the ringing phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Franklin blinked at the number flashing on the prepaid phone’s display. The lawyer was calling him.

  He wheeled around, panicky at the thought of talking to her.

  Calm down.

  He breathed out and reminded himself that he did know what to do. The man had given him a script to follow. He pawed through the papers on his kitchen table. He’d written it in his notebook.

  Where was the notebook?

  He had to hurry up and answer before she gave up and ended the call. But, he couldn’t ad lib. He had to find that notebook. He patted his pockets and felt the small rectangular lump in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt.

  Relief flooded his body. He flipped open the notebook and thumbed to the page he wanted, then cleared his throat and answered the call.

  “Hello.” His voice cracked.