by Greg Enslen
According to the reports, the downward economy had stalled the project in mid-2009, making it impossible for Martin Construction to complete the conversion. Neither Nick Martin nor his business partner had been able to buy the other out or front the kind of money required to complete the project or overcome the bad economy, so now it sat here, or at least it had until yesterday, when Nick had sold his half to Lassiter.
He was no architect, obviously, but Frank could see the potential. It was a beautiful brick building, and he could see how condos or apartments could be attractive. The bottom floor was supposed to be set aside for retail spaces, if he remembered correctly, making it an even cooler place to live.
And Peters had said there weren’t any other high-end apartments or condos in town, so the building owners could probably charge whatever they wanted to.
Frank started across the empty parking lot. It was cracked from the hundreds of heavy trucks that had once delivered raw materials or picked up completed toys for delivery. Nick Martin had said in the report on the project that the Holly Toys factory had operated for nearly sixty years out of this location before closing down in the late nineties.
Frank crossed the wide parking lot and saw one car parked near the front entrance. Next to the doors stood another sign advertising the condo project. This sign had renderings of what the condos would look like on the inside. Frank walked up and studied the sun-faded pictures in the fading light: large, open rooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, and those exposed brick walls that always somehow looked brand new and vintage at the same time.
The night was quiet. In the distance, Frank could hear the sound of the rock band playing at the HarvestFest concert downtown. It felt like he was a long way from the downtown area, but he was really only four blocks off the main drag. He could also hear the distant wailing of another approaching train.
Frank walked around the building. On the east side, facing the train tracks, was another, smaller parking lot. A fenced-off portion contained several pallets of construction materials, a Bobcat, and two forklifts.
“Can I help you?”
Frank turned to see a security guard walking up to him. The older, black man carried himself with a relaxed air, but one of his hands was resting on a gun in a holster. It looked like a small revolver.
Frank smiled.
“Hi. My name is Frank, Frank Harper,” he said. “I’m working with the police department on the kidnapping of those two girls. Have you heard about it?”
The man stopped and nodded. “What a mess. Christ, I hope they find those girls. You here ‘cause Mr. Martin used to own the building?”
Frank nodded. “Yup. I was with the New Orleans PD for a long time, and old habits are hard to break. I’m checking on some of his old properties, although what you said is right. He doesn’t actually own this anymore.”
The black man nodded and walked over to join Frank. “I was on the force up in Detroit, before I retired down here. This is all the construction materials and equipment. They put up the fence last year after some of the copper disappeared.”
“Theft or vagrants?”
“Mostly vagrants,” the security guard said. “They go around and strip whatever they can from abandoned buildings, rental properties—wherever they can find materials—and then take it into Dayton and sell it for scrap. I’m Monty, by the way. Monty Robinson.”
Frank shook his hand.
“Ever notice anything odd around here? I’m looking for where the kidnappers could stash the young girls, but I’m sure you’d notice people coming and going. Is the place watched around the clock?”
Monty nodded. “Yup, after those thefts. Me and two other guys. There’s a little office, but there’s rarely anyone here. Mr. Lassiter was here a couple days ago, but that’s been it for weeks. Wanna see the inside?”
“Sure, sounds good.”
Monty led him through a back entrance and into a first floor office—a small television, desk, coffee maker, and a stack of magazines—and then out into a dingy wide hallway.
“That’ll be the restaurant down there,” Monty said, pointing into a big open space in the gloom, “along with a couple other retail spaces. Up here, near the doors, was supposed to be the sales office for the residences, along with a small dry cleaner and a little grocery, like a 7-11 or corner grocery. Then the other three floors are all condos.”
Frank looked around—it didn’t look like they’d gotten far on the retail spaces, but the walls were all up and strung for power. Plastic sheets hung everywhere. “Too bad this place never got off the ground. It would’ve been a cool place to live.”
The guard nodded. “Back here is the loading dock and freight elevator,” he said, leading Frank down the darkened hallway to an open area on the northern end of the building. Boxes and shipping pallets blocked the way to two large loading doors. “Wanna see the condos?”
Frank glanced out a window and checked on the Taurus, which sat undisturbed. He nodded, and Monty led him to a rickety elevator. Monty pulled the metal gate across and hit a button that said “Fourth Floor” in old, blocky print.
“They get very far on the residences? I heard they didn’t sell any,” Frank asked, trying to ignore the fact that he was in an enclosed space. At least it was a freight elevator, with one of those open doors that let you see the floors sliding past.
“That’s not exactly true,” Monty said. “They sold several, almost half of the ten on the top floor, but all but two of them fell through. Foreclosed, even before they were built. Mr. Lassiter wanted one of the condos for himself, but he ended up buying a building elsewhere. His condo here was the only one they really came close to finishing, and they used it as the model home to show off to buyers.”
The elevator rattled to a sudden stop, and Monty pulled the gate open. The top floor was pitch black, except for the light in the elevator, but the guard exited the elevator and faded into the dark. After a long moment of silence, lights began flipping on, and Frank could see the security guard at an electrical panel, switching on banks of florescent lights.
“These up here got the closest to being done,” he said, pointing. Most of the floor was taken up with open spaces and temporary walls, but on the southern end, he saw a door. They started down the open space that would have been a hallway.
“There was also going to be a gym for the residents, and a common room for them to throw parties and such, down on the second floor. But these condos up here were the fanciest, with the big floor-to-ceiling windows,” Monty said, leading Frank across the huge open space. “Thick glass, too, to block the sound of the train.”
The guard pushed the condo door open, and Frank could see what he meant. While the residence wasn’t close to being finished, you could get a sense of what it would look like. The huge windows afforded a great view of downtown—from here, four stories up, he could see over the train tracks and houses and easily make out several now-familiar shops and restaurants. He could even pick out the corner where they were holding HarvestFest tonight—all the milling folks on the street gave it away.
“Yeah, too bad they didn’t finish,” the security guard said. “Seems a shame, letting all this stuff just go to waste. But now that it’s changed hands, the project should get going again.”
Frank turned.
“Matt Lassiter is going to get the project going again? I thought he didn’t have the money to finish.”
“He doesn’t. That’s why he said he sold it,” Monty replied.
“Wait,” Frank said, shaking his head. “I’m confused—you mean Nick Martin sold it to Lassiter, right?”
Monty nodded. “Yes, and then Mr. Lassiter sold it to another investment group. That’s why he was a couple days ago—he was gathering up paperwork. Said he needed all the schematics and a bunch of up-to-date photos of the interior. The new buyer wanted them. The building had some water damage last year.”
Frank nodded and walked over to the windows, looking down. The tracks ran right in front
of the building—he hoped they were planning to fence off the tracks or something, with people living here.
“Impressive, huh?” Monty said.
“Yes,” Frank answered. He glanced out across the downtown, finding the bookstore and the coffee shop. “It’s a great view.”
“Yup,” Monty grunted. “Wish I could afford it.”
Frank turned and smiled. “You mean they aren’t giving you a free one?”
Monty smiled. “Nah, but if I’m lucky, they’ll let me hold the door open for them,” he said sarcastically. “Hey, I have to get back to my rounds.”
“Sure, and thanks for the tour,” Frank said, following the guard out of Lassiter’s one-time condo and back down the hallway to the elevator. The elevator descended loudly, as Monty told Frank about his time on the force in Detroit—even then, the place was going to hell. When they got to the first floor, Monty pulled the door open, and Frank followed him to the office.
“Well, that’s pretty much it,” Monty said, walking him outside. “Let me know if you need to get back in some time.”
Frank nodded. “Thanks again.”
“No problem—hope it helped. I’m gonna continue my rounds—I gotta go back in and walk the other floors. Not that I ever find anything other than an occasional pigeon, snuck in through an open grate.”
Frank started to walk away, then turned back.
“Sorry, I gotta be clear on something,” Frank said. “You’re saying Lassiter sold it already? Nick only signed it over Tuesday morning.”
The security guard shrugged. “What can I tell you? Rich people. It was Thursday when he was in here, going through the papers.”
Frank shook his hand. “Thanks,” he said.
Monty Robinson disappeared back inside. Frank wasn’t sure what to do next—his mind was racing. For him to sell it that quickly, Lassiter must have already had a buyer lined up for the property. Or just been incredibly lucky, or expecting it to be coming “on the market.” There was no other way he could turn it over in less than 24 hours. But why hadn’t they seen a report on it, or any mention of the sale in all the financial records? Surely Agent Shale must have known about it—
Agent Shale.
He had access to all the financial records and could have removed anything he wanted. And why had the Bureau sent such a dunderhead—was he really an idiot, or just playing the part?
Frank walked back to the car, walking across the parking lot that fronted the tracks. He could the rock music drifting up from downtown.
Lassiter had benefited greatly from Martin having to sell his share. But was that reason enough to kidnap his partner’s daughter?
Frank wanted to call Chief King but also wanted to wait until he was in the car. He rounded the corner of the huge building and looked ahead—evidently, no one had broken into his car, or if they had, they’d been kind enough to close the trunk after themselves. There was another car parked next to his, a white car he hadn’t seen earlier.
Frank took out his phone and dialed Chief King’s number—there was no time to waste. This had to be information no one else had, or they would have been looking more closely at Lassiter. And Agent Shale had to have known about the quick sale. If Lassiter had the sale already lined up—
Frank’s call went to voicemail. The Chief was working the concert, and probably couldn’t even hear his phone ringing over the music.
“Hi, Chief, it’s Frank Harper,” Frank said, getting out his keys out, as he approached the cars. “I just found out Lassit—”
A massive pain bloomed in the back of his head, sudden and burning hot.
He stumbled, the phone clattering to the asphalt. Frank’s head swam, as if wracked by a sudden and massive hangover. His hands felt suddenly numb, but he reached up and felt the back of his head—it was wet. In the scant light of the parking lot, he saw his hand was covered with blood.
Frank tried to turn, to see his attacker, but only managed to fall to the ground. His mind registered the sensation of cold dampness, his face against the wet pavement.
The last thing he saw was a hand, reaching down to the ground. A gloved finger touched Frank’s cell phone, ending the phone call. And then something else hit his head again and everything went black.
49
“Sure, boss.”
George was on the phone again, and she could tell that he was, yet again, displaying his complete lack of balls. To Chastity, it seemed like George always took the easy way out.
She sat at the kitchen table, listening to George on the phone. It was late Saturday night—very late—and the little Mexican girl was crying again upstairs. How much crying could one little brat have in her? Chastity stretched her arms and neck—she’d slept in the Corolla again last night, partly to be away from the constant crying, but also to be ready to leave, when, and if, George decided to nut up and bail.
“I understand,” George said.
“I understand,” she said, mocking his voice. “‘Please and thank you,’ ‘whatever you want, I’m fine with,’ ‘Yes sir.’”
George shot her a look and covered up the mouthpiece of the phone. He nodded a couple of times, listening as Chastity rolled her eyes at the absurdity.
Her mom had been right: men were stupid. And easily manipulated—it only took the right kind of bra, or a great pair of legs, or a tight little skirt.
She smiled, remembering the hilarious look on those two cops’ faces when she’d popped out of her top in front of O’Shaughnessy’s. It’s like they had never seen tits before. And while she appreciated the power she had over men, she could never understand why they reacted the way they did. It had gone just like she’d planned—she dropped her purse, fumbled with her boobs, and the cops picked up her stuff and giggled at each other like children.
Men were stupid.
George said goodbye and hung up.
“Well?” she asked.
“It’s all over,” George said, smiling. “The boss says he has our money and is coming over in the morning with it. He said he was planning on being here last night, but something came up.”
“‘Something came up’,” she said, scoffing. “Isn’t that just a peach. Two days ago, he said ‘Saturday,’ and now it’s Saturday and surprise! We have to wait around, taking care of these stupid brats for another day!”
George shook his head. “They’re not brats—they’re just scared little girls. Weren’t you ever a scared little—”
“No, I wasn’t,” Chastity said, her hands on her hips. “Momma taught me better than that. She taught me how to sew and to not put up with STUPID men. So I’m asking again. When are we leaving?”
George shook his head.
“Tomorrow. We leave tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Good. After we get paid, we’re gone.”
He looked confused. “Yesterday, you said you didn’t care about the money and just wanted to go. What do you think now?”
“That was before I knew the money was on its way,” she said, biting her lip. “If it’s only gonna be a few more hours, we wait. Or you wait, and I’ll head into town.”
George looked confused. “Why?”
She rolled her eyes and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. “Seriously, how dumb are you?”
He looked at her, confused.
“OK,” Chastity said, speaking slowly. She always felt like she was talking to a child. “Say he doesn’t want to pay us at all—he shows up here and kills us. And the girls. No muss, no fuss. That’s part of why I wanted to go. Mom said money’s great, but not bleeding is better. So if he’s paying us, no problem. He’ll give you the money. But if he’s coming to do us harm, he won’t be able to do it, if we’re not both here. Right?”
George thought about it for a moment, and it was all she could do to not burst out laughing. He could get her coke or crack or whatever else she wanted, and money, and was OK in the bedroom—but JESUS the guy was thick.
After a minute, he figured it out.
“‘
Cause we wouldn’t both be here,” he said slowly. “It’s dumb to kill one of us, when the other can tell the cops, right?”
She nodded. It was all she could do to keep from rolling her eyes.
“Excellent!” he said, so happy with himself, but then his face turned serious. “What about the girls?”
“I don’t know! And I don’t care, and neither should you,” she said, exasperated. She walked away, pacing for a second to calm down. “Look, this is almost over. With us out of town, he could just let them go. I don’t know.”
She hoped that George would just forget about the girls, but she knew he had a soft spot for them. If the boss came to kill the girls, George would make trouble. Chastity was sure of it. If that happened, she’d need a plan. And worrying about the brats wasn’t her deal—she had enough to worry about.
50
“No sign of him?” Chief King asked, concerned.
It was Sunday morning, and the entire group of officers was dragging around the station after a busy night.
Deputy Peters shook his head, then closed the office door behind him and sat down in the empty chair across from King’s desk.
“No one has seen him, and he hasn’t been in yet,” Peters said, glancing up at the clock in King’s office, which read just after 7 a.m.
The HarvestFest event had gone well enough—only a few arrests for open containers, as people tried to wander off with their plastic cups of beer. Peters had caught one man urinating in someone’s front yard, and there had been another minor fight in front of Ricky’s. And then, after the downtown party, King’s men had been busy making sure everyone got home safe, or at least on to their next destination.