by Glenn Rogers
She nodded, thoughtfully. Then after a moment, said, “You're right. I've got a lot to learn, haven't I?”
That seemed to have been a turning point. A dilemma had been resolved. Her mood steadied and we were able to enjoy our lunch without the dark cloud of the recent events ruining the meal. Susan was a survivor. She'd be all right.
Just after we got back on the freeway, Frank got back to me.
“Escalade's registered to an Alfredo Jimenez,” Frank said. “East L.A. Owns a string of body shops. Says the vehicle was stolen early this morning. Hadn't gotten around to reporting it yet because he had a couple of important meetings early in the day. His businesses all appear to be legitimate, but one never really knows.”
“How long before you have anything on the three guys?”
“Coroner's got them now. Fingerprints are being run. Those guys may or may not be in the system. I'll get back to you when I have something else to tell you.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
I told Alex what Frank had said.
We got back to the FBI offices without further incident. I thanked Alex and told him I was glad he was with me. I told him I knew he had paperwork to do, so while he did that, I was going to go see Hanson and see if he might have any insights on who was behind the attempt on our lives. Neither of us said so, but I suspected we both knew the attempt had been on me, not on him and certainly not on Susan.
It took just over twenty minutes to make the drive to Norman Hanson's Club. The Eros Club features nude dancers. Like the clubs we had visited earlier in the day, when on stage, the girls were nude. While circulating among the tables and giving lap dances, they wore high heels and a G-string. Eric, the guy that worked the entrance, buzzed me in and one of the waitresses walked me across the dimly lit club floor to the door that led up to Norman's personal office.
Besides being a strip club owner, Norman also ran an enormously prosperous outsourcing business. When you needed a thug to break someone's legs or nose, or if you wanted someone killed and if you could afford the hefty price tag, you called Norman. He supplied the personnel who would do the job.
Norman had decided that I was a friend. I had decided that Norman was an acquaintance. I didn't mind the strip club, but I drew the line at outsourcing assassins. However, Norman knew stuff. He had sources of information that no one else had, and for some reason I didn’t fully understand, had decided to share some of it with me from time to time.
I climbed the stairs to Norman's office. His large personal assistant, Melvin, opened the door when I knocked. Given the businesses Norman operates, one might expect him to be a lowlife. Norman is, however, an educated, sophisticated man. When I walked into his expensively, tastefully decorated office, he was listening to Mozart and reading Augustine's, City of God. Norman Hanson is a man of complex contradictions.
He marked his place in his book, put it down, and said, “Jake Badger. It's good to see you again. Please, sit down.”
I sat in one of his leather guest chairs. “Thank you, Norman. Nice to see you again.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Couple of things,” I said.
He nodded and waited.
“Monday morning, Monica was abducted.”
His expression quickly changed to one of distress and concern.
“We don't know who took her or why.”
“I'm deeply sorry to hear that, Jake. My impression of Ms. Nolan is that she is both pleasant and extraordinary.”
“The FBI and the LAPD are working with me trying to find her.”
He thought about what I had told him, and then said, “You said there were a couple of things.”
“Earlier today, while we were returning from talking with a person of interest in Monica’s disappearance, someone made a run at us. Three Latino men in an Escalade opened up on our car with an Uzi while we were on the 10 out near Fontana.
“Surely, you know those men were not associated with me in any way.”
“I know that. But I was wondering if you might have an idea who sent them or if it was something you could look into without compromising yourself.”
He thought for a moment. “Do you think the attempt on your life is connected in some way to Monica's disappearance?”
“I don't know. Given the events of the past couple of months, it could be someone with a grudge against me, or Monica, or both of us. But if there is a connection, finding out who sent the assassins might lead us to Monica.”
“I agree,” Norman said. “I shall make some inquiries. If any of the people I know had anything to do with the attempt today, I'll find out. I will also make inquiries as to Ms. Nolan's disappearance. If anyone I know was involved, I'll find out. When I know, you'll know.”
“Thank you, Norman. I appreciate your help.”
It was after three when I left Norman's club. I went by Mildred's house to pick up Wilson. She asked about my day, so I told her. I knew she'd worry, but if I didn't tell her and she found out about it, she'd be really angry with me. She had explained it to me once. She had been a wife and was a mother. Worrying about the men in her life was included in her job description. When I reminded her that technically I was not one of the men in her life, she told me that I was, like it or not. So, okay, if she wants to know what's going on and then worry about it, I'll let her worry.
It wasn’t dinnertime yet, so I decided to stop by the office and go through the mail. Wilson came in with me. Most of the mail was junk. There were two checks from clients. That was good, since I wasn't working for anyone at the moment. And there was a small, plain, white envelope. I opened it. In it was a single piece of white paper folded in half. I unfolded it. In all capital letters, it read:
YOU'RE LOOKING IN THE WRONG PLACE
I called Alex.
“Got a letter.”
He knew what I meant.
“What's it say?”
I told him.
“Can you bring it over here?”
“On my way right now.”
Chapter 16
Wednesday, Late Afternoon and Evening
I’d been driving about five minutes when my phone rang in through my stereo system.
“Badger.”
“Hi, Uncle Jake, it’s Heather.”
“Hey, kid, what’s up?”
“Uncle Jake, I’m twelve years old. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Of course, you’re not. You’re an amazing young woman. So what’s up?”
“I have a problem.”
The truth was, I wasn’t in the mood to hear about my twelve-year-old niece’s problem. But she wouldn’t understand that. I doubted that my sister had even told her kids that I had a friend named Monica who had been abducted. So, since I was her uncle and since she had chosen to confide in me, thinking I could help her, I needed to listen and try to help.
“Really,” I said, “and you think I can help with it.”
“I’m sure you can. In fact, I think you’re the only one who can.”
“Sounds serious. Tell me what the problem is.”
“Linda Anderson’s brother.”
“Linda Anderson’s brother,” I repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Linda Anderson is a skank in my class.”
I wasn’t sure what skank meant to a twelve-year-old girl, but it didn’t sound complimentary.
“She’s thirteen. I’m sure she was held back a grade somewhere along the way. Not real bright, if you know what I mean. Anyway, she’s already having sex. I told her that was a slutty thing to do and she slapped me. So I slugged her right in the face and knocked her down.”
That made me smile. She’d inherited some of the same genes I had.
“She hit me first,” Heather said. “So I hit her back. Anyway, we both got sent to the office and Mr. Harrington, that’s the principal, called our parents. Mom had to come down and listen to him go on about how unacceptable my behavior was. It was so lame. Anyway, Linda and I both
got a three-day suspension. This was all last week. So then, on the first day we were back, she says I should watch my back ‘cause I’m dead. She says her brother’s gonna teach me a lesson. So I tell her that she’s full of it and that I’m not scared of her brother. And I called her a skank.”
I was hoping Heather would get to her point soon.
“So,” Heather said, continuing her saga, “the next day after school, Linda’s brother, Ryan, he’s seventeen, stops me as I’m walking home. He called me a bunch of dirty names and said he was gonna do sex stuff to me if I bothered his sister anymore. It was scary, Uncle Jake. I tried to act like I wasn’t afraid, but he scared me.”
“Did anyone else witness this exchange?”
“Sometimes you talk like a lawyer, you know that? No, no one else was around.”
“Did he touch you?” I asked, ignoring the lawyer crack.
“No. He just said stuff to me.”
“Did you tell your parents?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’ll call the school about it and everybody at school will hear about it and it will be awful.”
I knew what she meant. When I was in the fourth grade, a couple of sixth graders had targeted me for what they considered a little fun. I hadn’t hit my growth spurt yet and two guys who were bigger and stronger was beyond my ability at that time. I put up with their bullying for weeks before I’d finally had enough and told my mother. She did the usual mother thing, calling the principal. I had to go explain what the two bullies had done. They, of course, denied it. Soon, word got around school. All of the fifth and sixth grade boys sided with the two sixth graders and began referring to me as the crybaby. Made my life a living hell. I remember wishing my older sister had been an older brother who could have handled the bullies for me. That would have been easier all the way around. I understood what Heather was concerned about.
“What do you want me to do, Heather?”
“I want you to kick Ryan’s butt for me. I want to you scare him like he scared me.”
Crap. I didn’t have time for this. Monica was missing and I didn’t have time to chase down teenage bullies. Still, a seventeen-year-old boy scaring a twelve-year-old girl with sexual threats was not something you ignored. What if the kid decided to make good on the threats? Something needed to be done. But did I need to be the one doing it?
“Heather, I understand your concern. But I’m not sure I should be the one to deal with it. I think you should talk to your father.”
“My dad? Are you serious? All he’ll do is call the school and maybe the police. He’ll just make it worse. He’ll tell me that I’m supposed to be a young lady but that I’m behaving like a hooligan. That’s what he’ll say, hooligan. He’ll say that girls aren’t supposed to fight. That they’re supposed to be refined and delicate. Is that what you think, Uncle Jake. Do girls have to be sissies?”
She had me smiling again. “One of my very best friends,” I said, “is a woman, and is one of the toughest people I know. She was in the army. She’s brave and tough, and she can fight and shoot. But she can also be gentle and kind and be a lady. There’s nothing wrong with a woman being strong and capable. But I agree with your father, a young woman shouldn’t be a hooligan. Hooligan’s a good word. She shouldn’t go around starting fights, which includes calling people names.” I imagined Heather rolling her eyes at that comment. “But if someone slapped my friend, she’d do exactly what you did … she’d put her, or him, on the ground.”
“That’s what I think, Uncle Jake. I knew you’d understand. That’s why you need to be the one to help me.”
“But Heather, your father should be the one …”
“Please, Uncle Jake, my dad will just make it worse. Please just help me with Ryan. Then I can deal with Linda myself.”
I knew what she meant about her father. Fenton was a world-class wimp. He was smart and an excellent lawyer, but ask him to do something physical and he was less than useless. My sister would be better in a physical confrontation than her husband. In fact, if Della knew what Ryan had said to Heather, she’d probably hunt him down and kick his butt herself—or at least try. The problem was, Ryan was an unknown factor. I didn’t know how capable or stupid he was. He might be a big kid, an athlete capable of doing some damage to someone who didn’t know how to fight. Heather was right. Her father was not the guy to handle this. Calling Heather’s school would be a wasted gesture. Ryan would just deny what Heather said. Without a witness, it was her word against his. Calling the local police would be just as useless. There had been no assault, only an alleged verbal threat, which Ryan would deny. Still, I didn’t have time for this.
“Heather, I …”
She must have heard it in my voice, because she cut me off.
“Uncle Jake, please. You’re the only one who can help me. It won’t take very long. I can show you where he works after school. I’ll even go with you. In fact, I’d like to go with you. I want to watch you make him wet his pants. The big jackass. Picking on a girl half his size.”
She had a point. But still … I sighed. I knew she wasn’t going to let this go. She was like my sister in that regard. When Della decided that something needed to be done, she’d find a way to make it happen. As Heather entered adolescence, it was obvious that she had inherited a good deal of her mother’s personality.
“Okay,” I said, “but listen to me. I’m right in the middle of a big case. It’s very important and there’s some danger involved. Maybe I can find a few minutes tomorrow afternoon. Okay?”
“Thank you, Uncle Jake. I knew I could depend on you. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see. I’ll try to call you tomorrow. It’s not a guarantee. It depends on what happens with this case I’m working on. I’ll try. And in the meantime, don’t go anywhere by yourself. Always have someone with you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“And don’t pick anymore fights with Linda. Don’t do anything to aggravate the situation. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, sounding somewhat annoyed. “She’s such a skank.”
“Yeah, well, just leave the skank alone.”
“I will. Thank you, Uncle Jake. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Great. Just what I need. A seventeen-year-old idiot who hasn’t got enough sense to let two little girls work out their own problems.
Chapter 17
Wednesday, Late Afternoon and Evening
We were standing next to Alex's desk. Susan had gone home. It was just the two of us, and Wilson, who lay on the floor with his chin on his paws, watching us closely. Alex put on gloves and took the note out of the plastic baggie I'd put it in.
“The return address is probably fake,” Alex said, as he looked at it. “L.A. postmark.” He opened the envelope, took the note out and read it. He looked at the paper and the envelope. “Looks pretty standard. Can probably buy it just about anywhere.”
Mostly he was talking to himself. Then he looked at me and said, “The note itself isn't going to give us anything.”
“I know.”
“But the fact that there is a note ...”
“Tells us that Monica is being used as bait,” I said, finishing his sentence. “Whoever's got her wants me to find her.”
“Why?” Alex asked.
“Either, they’re after me,” I said, “or they want both of us and are using Monica to get me.”
Alex nodded. “I agree. And either way, whether they want you or both of you, right now, you're the target.”
I nodded absently, struggling with the inevitable question that no one had asked yet. I was aware that Alex was on the phone, asking someone in the forensics lab to come to his office. He hung up and I looked at him.
“We haven't discussed it yet. And I appreciate you not bringing it up. But it needs to be said.”
Alex laid the envelope down on his desk, took the gloves off, dropped them in his waste basket, and sat down. I walked to his
eleventh story window and stared out toward the ocean miles away.
After a moment, I said, “They may have killed her already.”
Alex remained silent.
“But I don't know that,” I said, “and my gut says she’s still alive.”
I turned back to Alex.
“So I have to keep looking.”
Alex got up and came over to me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “You don't have to keep looking. We have to keep looking. And we won't stop until we find her. I believe she's still alive. And I believe we'll find her.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I was on an emotional roller coaster, either too angry or too frightened and worried.
Alex said, “The hard part will be keeping them from killing you while we're rescuing Monica.”
“I need to go to Utah,” I said, “to see Gretchen Petersen. Can you focus on who sent the shooters until I get back?”
“Of course. But the note said we were looking in the wrong place. That could mean that people from Monica’s past is the wrong place.”
“It might,” I said. “But it’s an ambiguous message at best. The note doesn’t define the parameters of the wrong place or tell us where the right place is. We have to continue to follow up on all the possibilities.”
Alex nodded and then said, “If you were making a list, who would you put at the top?”
“Either Esposito or someone related to Pipestone,” I said.
“Be on my list, too,” he said. “But while I'm looking into that and you're questioning Petersen, we also need to try to figure out what the note means.”
“Sure,” I said. “If we've been looking in the wrong places, where's the right place?” It was a rhetorical question.
Alex ran his hand through his hair and down his neck, squeezing and rubbing his neck. “Maybe the kidnapper will take pity on us,” he said, “and send us some additional clues.”