Burning Embers

by G. K. Parks

  I fell silent, watching as he examined my stainless steel cookware. He selected a few pieces to add to his collection, along with an enameled cast iron casserole dish Mark Jablonsky, my FBI mentor and Martin’s best friend, had given me for the holidays three years ago.

  “This is nice.” Martin removed the cover. “It looks brand new. Do you ever use it?”

  “No.”

  He chuckled. “Did Jabber give it to you?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I gave him one exactly like it when he moved into his townhouse after his third divorce.”

  “It’s probably the same one. You might as well take it back. Out of the three of us, you’re the only one who knows what to do with it.” I lifted the handle, remembering why I never used it. “It’s damn heavy. Are you sure it isn’t a weapon?”

  “Do you always think tactically?”

  “Force of habit.”

  “Should I be concerned why you’re so adamant about holding on to the serving spoon? Does it shoot laser beams or something?”

  “No, but that would make it a lot easier to get the ice cream out of the container.”

  “They make scoops for that.”

  I gave him a look, and he obediently dropped the spoon into the box.

  Martin emptied a few more cabinets. “Don’t forget to check online for events in Vegas. I know a guy who can get us tickets to just about anything. Let me know what you find, and I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “We’ll worry about that later. Right now, let’s see how much packing we get done. I’m not leaving this up to strangers.”

  “We’ll finish. I’ll make sure of it.” He emptied another cabinet. “Anything else you want to keep from the kitchen?”

  “The microwave and I have some fond memories, but it makes a weird humming sound. I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “For someone who has zero photographs and very few knickknacks, you have an unnatural attachment to your microwave.”

  “It kept me fed on the days you didn’t, but I guess I’ve traded up. We can donate it or leave it for the next tenant.” I narrowed my eyes. “Where are my fridge magnets?”

  “They’re on the fridge in our apartment. Marcal grabbed them when he brought over the empty boxes this morning,” Martin said. “You were already at work.”

  I took a seat at the island, glancing forlornly at the empty spot where my dining room table used to be. When we finished in the kitchen, I gave the growing donation pile the quick once-over but didn’t see anything worth saving.

  By now, most of the apartment had been emptied. Aside from the couch and coffee table, there was nothing left in the main room. The bathroom only had the most basic of toiletries, and my towels were too old and frayed to bother keeping.

  “I’ll pack up the bedroom tomorrow night, and the movers can get the rest of my furniture over the weekend.” I spun in a circle, remembering the first time I ever set foot in this apartment. Considering everything that had happened over the last eight years, I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d get my security deposit back. A piece of carpeting was still missing from where I’d peeled it off the floor after O’Connell shot a psychopath intent on killing me. I should have moved then, but I didn’t. Damn, my life was the plot of a bad action movie. “When’s our flight?”

  “Early Monday morning. We filed the flight plan with a seven a.m. takeoff time.” Martin grabbed several boxes off the counter and followed me to the front door. “I can delay our departure a few hours if you don’t finish packing.”

  I shook my head. “It’s just the bedroom. How bad can it be?”

  Martin chuckled. “Most of your clothes are already in our apartment, so I’m guessing the only things left to pack are the dozen shirts I’ve lost over the years. Any idea where they might be?”

  “I plead the fifth.” Before we made it out the front door, my phone rang. “Hang on a sec.” It took a moment before I recognized the number on the display as Chef Easton’s. Why was he calling?

  “Hello?”

  “Alex, I just called the police. I heard something. Someone’s inside my house. I think they’re still here,” he whispered.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the pantry.”

  I heard a loud crash, and the line went dead. “Shit.” I grabbed my car keys and made sure my gun was in my purse. “I have to go. It’s an emergency.” Before Martin could say a word, I dialed the office. I needed Easton’s address. He said he called the cops. Hopefully, they’d get there before I did.

  Nine

  “Hello?” I called, pushing the door open with my foot. “Is anyone here?” I waited for a reply. When none came, I said, “I’m armed, and the police are on their way.” Still nothing. “Easton? It’s Alex.”

  Cautiously, I crept inside. Broken glass crunched beneath my feet, and I noticed the broken window. A brick lay on the floor with a note taped to it. I scanned the area for signs of danger before flipping the brick over with my foot.

  Die, asshole was scrawled on the note in red block letters. That would make handwriting analysis more difficult, but that was the least of the problem.

  “Easton?” I bellowed.

  I didn’t hear anything. Where were the cops? I swept the living room and sitting room. For a renowned chef, Easton Lango lived in squalor. His couch looked like something he found on the side of the road. He had a TV mounted on the wall and a few tray tables to hold his lamps. Well, lamp. The other was broken and sideways beside a knocked over table.

  Someone had been inside. I just didn’t know if they were still here, and I had no idea where Easton was. Swallowing, I aimed at the closet door before pulling it open. Several sets of chef whites hung inside. I pushed them out of the way, but the closet was empty.

  I repeated the process in the bedroom and bathroom. I didn’t find any other signs of a break-in or a blood trail. Hopefully, Easton had gotten away.

  I entered the kitchen and flipped on the light, sweeping my gun back and forth and aiming at an apron that looked a little too lifelike. Exhaling, I noted the expensive cookware and appliances. Obviously, Easton only cared about the kitchen and not the rest of his house. If someone wanted to hurt him, this would be the place to strike, but nothing was damaged. The two thousand dollar blender and five hundred dollar mixer remained undisturbed.

  None of this made any sense. I searched the entire house. Easton said he was hiding in the pantry, and it was the only place left to check. I ducked behind the counter and aimed at the pantry door.

  “You’re surrounded. We know you’re in there. Throw out your weapons and come out with your hands up.” Sure, it was just me, but there was safety in numbers. So it was me, myself, and I. “We won’t ask again.”

  Nothing.

  I edged closer to the pantry, the barrel of my gun leading the way. Thoughts of a shotgun blast ripping a hole through the thin wood door and my chest ran through my mind. I probably shouldn’t have left my vest in the car. Oh well, too late now.

  I yanked the door open. The walk-in pantry was dark, making it impossible to see any potential threats clearly. I reached for the pull cord on the overhead light, prepared to fire at the first sign of danger. The light came on, illuminating the packed shelves. No one was inside.

  Taking an unsteady breath, I zeroed in on Easton’s cell phone. Slipping on my leather gloves, I knelt down and picked up the dropped phone. The corner of the screen was cracked, but it didn’t affect the functionality. Unfortunately, Easton password protected the device. I checked the rest of the pantry, noting several broken jars and dented cans. Maybe whoever threw the brick through the window found the chef hiding in the pantry and dragged him away.

  Realizing the phone might be evidence, I put it down where I found it and stood up. I used my phone to photograph the scene and was mid-dial when thunderous footsteps sounded behind me. I took a step back and tugged on the cord, plunging the pantry into darkness. With all the shelves and foodstuff
s, there wasn’t much room to maneuver or hide. It was a good thing I was a decent shot and had the element of surprise.

  The footsteps grew louder. Someone was in the kitchen. He was getting closer. And closer. Suddenly, a flashlight blinded me.

  “Lower your weapon,” he said.

  I ignored the command, squinting against the harsh light. He stepped so close I could smell his aftershave. He reached out with the flashlight, the cold metal brushing against my arm. I jerked, swinging at the light and knocking his hand away.

  “Take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” He lowered the blinding beam of light and tugged on the cord. “Did Chef Easton call you, too? Where is he?”

  I blinked, hoping to get rid of the red blobs impeding my vision. “Detective Voletek?”

  He holstered his gun and waited for me to do the same. “Is there a particular reason you’re hiding in the closet?”

  “I wasn’t hiding. Easton called and said someone was inside his house.”

  “I saw the brick.” Voletek looked around. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I searched the house but didn’t find much.” I pointed at the dropped cell phone. “We were disconnected. That’s his phone.”

  “Shit.” Voletek rubbed his mouth and crouched down, examining the damage. “Was it like this when you got here?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, I have to call this in.”

  “Easton said he called the cops.”

  “He called me.”

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “I already said that.” Voletek spoke to dispatch, giving them Easton’s address.

  While he was occupied, I wandered toward the back door. Easton Lango lived in a small cottage in the suburbs, but from what I gathered, this wasn’t a safe neighborhood. A chain-link fence kept the tall, brown weeds from sprawling into the neighbor’s yard. I checked the back door for signs of tampering, surprised to find it unlocked.

  A set of deep tire tracks cut a path through the backyard. Perhaps the assailant abducted Easton and dragged him out the back and into a waiting getaway vehicle. I unholstered my gun and stepped outside. It had been dark for hours. No one was outside. I doubted the neighbors noticed anything, and if they did, they probably wouldn’t tell us.

  “Hey, Voletek, I might have something.”

  “Jake,” he corrected, joining me on the cracked concrete slab that housed a rusty grill. “What is it?”

  “The door was open, and we have tire tracks.”

  He didn’t move from the spot on the patio. “I’ll let the uniformed officers know. We’re gonna need a crime scene unit down here.” Anger flashed across his face. “Do you think this is an abduction?”

  “It reads like one, but I hope not.”

  “Without a body, it doesn’t look like a homicide.” He glanced back into the kitchen. “It doesn’t look like a robbery. Those kitchen gadgets would be worth a few grand. A thief would know that. He would have taken them.”

  “Did you read the brick?” I asked. The tire tracks didn’t make sense, and I watched them disappear around the side of the house. What was on the other side of the house? “Why leave the threat if you’re here to kidnap the target?”

  “Maybe they didn’t have a plan.”

  “Or Easton escaped.” I took a step off the patio just as the sound of sirens filled the air. “Looks like your backup has arrived.”

  “All right. Let me brief them. Stay here.”

  Based on the width and depth of the tracks, I suspected they must have been made by a large vehicle. Perhaps Easton used the backyard to park his food truck. He was far too paranoid to leave it unattended all night. But I doubted the neighborhood was zoned for this, just like it wasn’t zoned for the drug den down the street, so he’d probably want to keep the truck hidden.

  I followed the tracks around the side, unsure what I would find. Parked behind a shed to obstruct the view from the street was Easton’s Eats. A dusty blue tarp had been thrown over the top to further hide it from view. Obviously, Easton didn’t want to get ticketed or risk having the vehicle towed. He cared a lot about that truck. If someone wanted to hurt him, this would be the perfect place to do it.

  Slowly, I crept toward the rear door. The shutter covered the order window, and the tarp blocked the windshield. There was no way to see inside. Tugging on the rear door handle, I found it unlocked. I turned on the small flashlight attached to my keychain and held it beneath my gun, sweeping the beam of light from left to right.

  When I didn’t see anyone inside, I climbed into the pitch black truck and searched for a light switch. That’s when I heard a rustling sound. Someone else was inside.

  I spun toward the sound. The beam of light caught a rush of movement right before the gun was knocked from my hand. I didn’t have time to process or recover before the object struck again. This time, it missed, but I felt the whoosh of air blow my hair back as it passed inches from my face. A guttural scream followed, and as my eyes adjusted, I ducked, narrowly escaping the swing of the aluminum bat. It banged against the window, breaking it and showering me in pieces of glass. The attacker swung again, but I grabbed the end of the bat in both hands and tugged, my palms stinging from the impact.

  He yanked hard, and I let go, sending him sprawling into the corner of the truck. I scooped up my gun and flashlight and pointed them at the assailant. “Don’t shoot. Please,” he begged.

  “Easton?”

  Dazed, Easton rubbed the back of his head. “Alex?” He hit a switch, and the interior lights came on. “I thought you were the asshole with the brick.” He put the bat on the counter, grabbed a towel, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Did I hurt you?”

  I rubbed my hand, relieved his second swing missed or else he might be cleaning brain matter off the counter instead of just the broken window. “I’ll live. Are you okay? What’s going on? I thought something happened to you. I thought you were abducted.”

  “I’m fine. A bit freaked, but otherwise good. Thanks for showing up when you did. I thought they came back. I thought they found me.”

  “Who?”

  He looked uncertainly at my gun. “Have you been inside my house?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then you know.”

  I blinked, wondering if one of us had sustained a head injury. “You’re not making much sense. Spell it out for me. Who are they? What did they do?”

  “Did you find anyone inside?”

  “No.” I tucked my gun away, realizing the sight of it was making him nervous. “Did you hit anyone else with the bat besides me?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’ll get you some ice and tell you what happened.”

  “You can tell us what happened,” Voletek said, appearing at the rear door. He reached for the radio. “Cancel the all points. I found Easton Lango. Be advised, we’re coming inside.”

  Easton led the way out of the truck. Two cruisers remained parked in front of Easton’s house, but by now, they killed the lights and sirens. The house diagonal from Easton had their porch lights on, and I thought I saw someone peek out through the blinds. Nosy neighbors, I assumed, reminding myself to speak with them later.

  “What’s going on, Chef?” Voletek asked as we entered the kitchen and Easton took a seat at the table. “Do you know who did this?”

  Easton shook his head. “No idea. I was in the living room, planning out the menu when I heard noise outside.”

  “What kind of noise?” Voletek asked.

  “The rumble of an engine and a radio with the bass turned all the way up. I thought the neighbors were having another of their parties.” The way Easton said parties meant he knew they were dealing drugs. “This block has a lot of traffic. People in and out at all hours of the day and night. I only moved here so I could save up enough to start my own restaurant.” A dark cloud settled over Easton, and he scowled. “Anyway, I didn’t give it much thought until that brick came crashing through my window. That’s when
I grabbed the bat and called you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this on the phone?” Voletek asked.

  “Most of the cops I’ve talked to have had more important things to do. I figured you’d just think it was vandalism and not bother to show up.”

  “Is that why you didn’t call 911?” Voletek asked.

  “Yeah.” Easton glanced at the uniformed officer taking notes from the counter. “After I called you, I realized the car was still out there.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “It was a classic muscle car, black or maybe dark blue. It looked like a Mustang, sixty-something, I’d guess. It had been tricked out. Undercarriage lights, spinners, and that sick stereo.”

  “What color were the lights?” I asked.

  “Neon green.”

  “Have you ever seen that car before?” Voletek asked. Again, Easton shrugged. I didn’t think the chef paid much attention to anything that wasn’t related to cooking. “What about the driver? What did he look like? Have you ever seen him before?”

  “I don’t know. It was too dark to see.”

  “But you’re sure the brick came from the car?” Voletek asked. Easton nodded, and Voletek told the uniformed officer to radio in the intel. Obviously, we traded one BOLO for another.

  “How long was he out there?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. He just sat there, like he was waiting for something or someone. I checked the rest of the house and figured I’d wait for help to arrive. I thought about bashing in his windshield with the bat, but I didn’t know if he had a gun.” Easton stared at the table, reddening with embarrassment. “I should have done something.”

  “You did the right thing,” Voletek said. “In situations like this, it’s best to let the police handle it. When citizens take matters into their own hands, things gets messy. He might have said you assaulted him. It’s best to think before you act.”

  “Yeah.” Easton didn’t sound convinced.

  “When we spoke, you said someone was inside the house,” I said. “Why don’t you tell us about that?”

  “I was hiding in the pantry, waiting for help to arrive. That’s when I heard him come inside. Or I thought I did. I don’t know.” Easton ran a shaking hand through his multi-colored hair.