by Michele Hart
They discussed the phone, Greg realized, which she’d smartly already employed recording the scene. They heard the musical tones of buttons being pushed, then they heard nothing more than ambiguous clicks and cracks.
“Where’re we going to take them now?” asked a second male voice, curiously familiar, tickling Greg’s brain.
“We’re going to take them out to the marina,” the first man replied.
“You’re going to kill us and feed us to the sharks?” Elissa asked, her voice anxious. Greg wondered if a gun had been held on them. The thought of Elissa or Sissy getting hurt by the sediment he’d stirred up from the ocean bottom knotted his stomach.
The first male voice replied, “No, we’re just going to put you on a boat in international waters for safe-keeping while Greg finds those bottles for us. You can’t escape in the middle of the gulf.”
“What if he never finds them all?” Elissa asked. “What if the bottles you’re looking for are now empty or missing in action?”
Elissa must’ve been frightened, but not too frightened to question them aloud for the voice recorder on her phone. Clever girl.
“If Greg blows it,” the first voice told the girls with venom, “I’m sure the black market won’t mind seeing both of you as stock for sale.”
There was a moment of more shuffles, and then a deep grunt came from a male voice. The second, more familiar voice shouted, “Back down! Let him go! It’s not worth a bullet!”
Greg took a hard swallow in concern for the women. The yelling had been what Greg needed to identify the second voice. He’d heard that yell a thousand times at high school football games, heard him holler when he lost at poker. Greg rose to his feet and paced, curious if Allen knew.
“Someone held a gun on them,” Allen stated aloud, his jaw locked and tensed. Greg grew angrier with every passing moment, his lips pressed into a hard line with no mandate to relax.
After another run of muffled movement, the first male voice said, “Looks like Girlfriend needs to be watched every moment. She’s a tiger.”
Greg worried over what Elissa had done to cause what he’d heard. It almost got her shot. He hoped she wasn’t injured, then remembered she’d taken years of martial arts.
After a minute or two of relative silence, the second man’s voice directed, “Grab a bottle, ladies. It’s not what we’re looking for, but it’s still good for drinking.”
“I know I could use a drink,” Sissy’s voice muttered aloud, sounding unnerved.
Then they heard the close of the front door, then nothing but silence for a good length of time. Greg pressed the stop button.
He met Allen’s hot eyes and gritted teeth. “Someone took Sis and Elissa at gunpoint. Why would someone do that, Greg?”
Dreading each moment, Greg told his friend all about the Florida Department of Law Enforcement engineering the theft of a shipment involving all the suppliers of his father’s last shipment of goods a year and a half ago.
Allen had been present for the breaking-and-entering investigation at the restaurant the night of his sister’s party. Greg went on to tell him about the man who’d attempted to take the wine delivery from his house. Then he explained how all the freight had been removed from police care without a trace.
And now, the girls were missing, taken from Greg’s home, his fortress of solitude, his house of rest and safety violated for wine?
Greg sat on the barstool, a bit numbed by the gravity of the crisis. “Something about that just didn’t make much sense. The wine wasn’t valuable or very uncommon. I think I’ve stepped in a big pile of organized crime.”
“That’s hell to scrape off your shoes, Greg. I know Papa Moretti wouldn’t have messed with the Mob.”
“I never realized I was jabbing at Bigfoot’s ribs. Elissa suggested Dad might’ve been slipped dangerous freight, and he’d interrupted the Mob stealing it back.”
Allen’s blond brow dove over questioning eyes. “How will you prove that?”
Greg delayed his answer for thought before he finally said, “I’d hoped the faked port robbery will awaken sleeping evidence.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve awakened something from the pit of Hades. They want the wine for some reason, and that reason justifies kidnapping. They should call us soon to tell us what they want.”
Greg ran his hands through his hair and wished to rip it all out. “I didn’t want the girls to get caught up in this.”
Allen stared at Elissa’s phone, suspicion in his blue-beamed gaze. “Play the file on her phone again. I think I might recognize one of the voices.”
Eager for an unsolicited opinion of his own cynical premonitions, Greg took Elissa’s phone to his computer, downloaded the audio file, and they replayed the message four times over the speakers.
Finally, Allen came out with it. “The second voice sounds like Jerry to me. I wasn’t sure at first, but the more I hear the file, the surer I am.”
Greg nodded. “I’d hoped it was my imagination. Fortunate Imports is hip-deep in this situation. All our European imports come from Fortunate, including the wine. Jerry’s possible involvement isn’t a new concept to run through my head. I just didn’t want to face it.”
Greg’s phone rang, and he drew it from his pocket and checked caller ID. “It’s a blocked call.”
“I’d answer it.”
“Greg Moretti,” he said into the phone.
“Moretti, find every one of those bottles of wine, and I’ll call you in six hours.” The voice on the other end was the first male voice on the recorded conversation.
“Are the girls okay?” Greg asked. “Can I speak to one of them?”
Click, and the line went dead.
“I guess I better find those bottles,” Greg muttered, his soul defeated for just this moment. He took a slow shuffle into the kitchen and to the wine rack to see it empty of the Chianti, then he checked the refrigerator to see all the Pinot Grigio already taken by the kidnappers. “They took what was here.”
Allen paced to the kitchen and reached into the drawer below the phone to dig out a pen and pad, then he passed it to Greg. “You’d better start a list of the all the people you gave a bottle of wine.”
Chapter 13
In an hour, Julian and Penny were there, and they’d brought the bottle of wine Greg had given her. Five accounted for, thirty-one to go.
Greg and Allen told Julian and Penny everything that had happened so far, the port robbery faked to rattle some riffraff, the break-in at Rubia’s, the armed robbery at his house, and the freight’s disappearance from police custody. Julian was stunned to hear Jerry had some part in it.
Greg gave Julian and Penny the addresses of people he’d already called to pick up the surrendered wine. They’d managed to catch all the other investors and arrange for pickup, aided by a little white lie about mislabeling and recalls. Greg was crushed to learn the representative for the Japanese investors had already boarded his return flight home.
“It’ll be at least two days before that bottle can be shipped back to me. Jerry and his friend would have to wait at least that long to retrieve every bottle, if it’s even possible. Maybe they’d be happy with most of the bottles.”
Allen threw out a grunt of frustration.
Another hour passed, and eleven unopened bottles of wine had been collected. Another two hours, the count was sixteen. Greg counted and recounted the bottles Elissa and he had shared, three, if he recalled correctly, and none of those bottles had been unusual in any way that he’d seen. Six bottles had been served at the Cook-off. Julian cooked with a bottle, and Jerry took four bottles with him. Only twenty bottles unopened. Every bottle accounted for but two, one on an international flight to Japan and one out on the loose.
Greg regarded Allen, too quiet for his character. Steady enough to cut into human flesh with razors, Allen was unnerved at the threat against Sissy, a sight unseen before.
Running his hands nervously through his blond hair, Allen deadp
anned, “I wonder what’s in the special bottles of wine worth kidnapping charges.”
After examining every bottle, Greg took no guess.
The sun was setting, time was flying, and Greg thought of Jerry, and why his import business dealt with people powerful enough to make police evidence disappear. Smuggling. Elissa had been right. Fortunate Imports had found its fortune in ugly ways.
Greg found Penny’s eyes on him. “Are we calling the police, Greg?” It was a matter of time when someone would ask or suggest it.
Allen cast him a bent brow. “We’ll need a small army to search the marina. It’s too big for us.”
Penny turned to Greg. “What do you think will happen if we called Sissy’s cell phone?”
Greg went to the coffee pot and emptied the carafe of its leftovers, then guzzled a cup of the thick brew down. “If Sissy’s phone is with them, we don’t want Jerry and his pal finding out about it by us calling. A better idea just slapped my face.”
Greg went to his computer, took a seat, and activated the tracer program. “Sissy’s phone is part of Rubia’s cell phone network. As the administrator, I can track any cell phone in our loop. If Sissy’s phone is turned on, we can find them.”
Penny was so impressed, she applauded.
After a few seconds of uploading information to a geo-synchronous satellite, the computer showed a grid of the city with a red dot flashing.
“The thug lied,” Allen said, leaning over Greg’s shoulder to study the map. “They aren’t near the marina.”
Penny and Julian looking on, Greg clicked for the zoom several times, and the computer magnified the area, and both Allen and he recognized the address right away. “Fortunate Imports’s warehouse. Nothing can erase Jerry’s shoe print all over this shebang.”
Greg dragged a finger over his five o’clock whiskers. “I’d rather call the police onto the scene at my timing, not theirs. Unfortunately, when the cops show up, Jerry’s not going to come clean about his depth with the Mob.”
“We can threaten him with arrest,” Allen put in, “and he’ll most likely choose us over handcuffs and bars. He might even let us help get him out of trouble.”
Greg felt heat rise in his head, simmering inside him. “Jerry’s gonna tell me plenty, like any guess he has on who killed my father. The police said it was a Mob killing. Now it looks like it was. If all of this is related, a man’s been killed, two women kidnapped for cases of spoiled grape juice. Whatever’s so special about that wine, it’s drawn the attention of high-level bad guys.”
Allen groaned. “We really don’t want the police coming down on Jerry’s family business. His family doesn’t deserve this. Maybe we can solve all this ourselves.”
“Jerry’s friend should be calling me back to tell me where to deliver the bottles. By that time, I can be outside that office and in cell phone contact with Penny who’ll call the police onto the scene, if she hears any violence.”
“You’re not going alone,” Allen put in. “I’ve got some foul words for Jerry.”
“I’m going, too,” Julian added himself to the list.
“Too many people,” Greg directed. “If it’s crowded, Jerry won’t talk. If he’s even there. There could be some other guy holding a gun on them. We know Sissy’s phone is there, and that could only be where they’ve put the women.
“Allen and I have the best chance of getting Jerry to talk. We’re going to take the bottles to the import warehouse instead of the drop-point they designate. Jerry’s not likely to show up for the drop and risk being seen by us. I’ll bet he’s with the girls. We’ll make him release them. If he’s not fond of the idea, we’ll change his mind.”
Greg’s cell phone rang, so he checked caller ID. “Blocked call.”
Everyone’s interests piqued.
“Greg Moretti,” he said into the phone, vowing to himself he’d appreciate dullness in life more.
“Did you get all the bottles?” the voice on the other end grumbled.
“Yes,” Greg reported, catching wary stares from everyone in the room.
“Go to 3134 Dirt Trail Road. There’s an empty house there, a model for the house sales in the neighborhood. The front door will be unlocked. Leave the bottles in the livingroom in plain sight at midnight. You’ll see the girls in the morning.”
“Let me speak to one of them.”
He hung up.
Greg pushed the button to end the call. And he smiled. “He gave a delivery address different from where the women are hidden. That means we can be at the warehouse when his friend leaves for the drop-off place. Let’s send the police to the drop and we can free the girls, then give Jerry an attitude correction on our time.”
Penny shook her head. “Why not just call the police?”
Greg issued a stern expression at the question. “Because he’s an old friend. Our families are close, and I can’t see letting the jerk cause so much devastation if a good thrashing would redirect the course. I’d like to keep his family from losing their business. Old friends are handed one Get-Out-of-Jail-Free-With-Only-a-Massive-Beating card, you know. Besides, we don’t know how many guns are on the girls at this moment. How do we know an onslaught of cops won’t get Sissy and Elissa killed?”
The room groaned in agreement.
Greg leaned against the table, and motioned with an impatient wave of his hand. “Everyone. Surrender your cell phones.”
“Our cell phones?” Penny peeped.
Greg gave her a nod.
* * * *
Greg and Allen waited patiently in Allen’s Porsche, probably the least recognized by Jerry since it was brand-new and most concealable in the dark due to its deep green color.
Scouting around the warehouse, they’d spotted the back corner of the building lit so they parked the car in sight of the door and waited for someone to leave for the pickup.
During the wait, Greg revealed the twists of Elissa’s identity. Allen told him something about the server at Reno’s had bothered him intensely, but he hadn’t bent his mind to the puzzle. That she prepared for a career in the FBI shocked him to his bones.
“You see anything?” Greg heard from a small, wavering voice coming from his pocket.
He drew Allen’s phone from his front pocket, one of those super-thin phones, and told Penny and Julian, “Everything’s still cool and calm. Just hold tight. You know what to do.”
“Call the cops if I hear a ruckus,” Julian repeated his orders over the speaker-phone.
“Exactly.” Greg slipped Allen’s open cell phone back into his shirt pocket and waited.
Greg broke the silence with a grisly thought. “If the Mob took the freight from police lookup, they might’ve found their hands on the full police file of the faked heist. They could have my name now as the plan’s instigator, jeopardizing every member of my family, every person I care about.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ll say to Jerry?” Allen asked.
“Before or after I beat the blood from him?”
Allen made no comment to that.
Thirty minutes before the drop-time, they watched a lone man emerge from the warehouse and leave in a car. He looked like their wine burglar when seen from this distance under the warehouse parking lot’s sparse and bitter lighting.
Greg pulled the cell phone from his pocket and instructed, “Julian, call the phone number I gave you to Detective Bonner, and tell him the pickup man’s on his way.”
“Right,” Julian replied, and Greg knew his cousin picked up his own cell phone for the call, leaving the house speaker-phone live with Penny’s ear pinned on every small noise coming from the scene on their end.
“How are you keeping the FDLE from showing up here?” Allen queried.
“I didn’t tell them this part. I only told Bonner the details of the bottle pick-up, withheld the rest. He’s waiting for the call while he’s cussing me under his breath.”
Allen drew the keys from the ignition, and shoved them into his jeans poc
ket. “Let’s get this done.”
The two men unloaded the milk crates of wine bottles from the back seat, then Greg stuck a handle of a pair of chain cutters into the loops of his jeans, and they began the trek to the warehouse.
Returning to the door they’d encountered on the earlier stealth recon trip, Greg and Allen addressed the padlocked back door meant to be an unencumbered fire exit, and Allen cut the lock as soundlessly as the snap of a twig.
Carefully opening the door, they silently hauled in the crates of wine, leaving the cutters and door opened behind them, not wanting to chance a sound. Padding around the perimeter of the warehouse stacked with crates ten feet high, Greg and Allen followed the sound of voices.
Slipping his sight onto the scene from behind a huge wooden crate, Greg saw Jerry sitting in a metal chair beside a table, flicking playing cards at one of the bottles set on the floor a few yards away. He packed a pistol in a shoulder holster, and a ring of cigarette butts lay at his feet. The other bottles of wine taken from Greg's kitchen sat atop the table.
A shift in angle, and Greg spotted Elissa and Sissy bound to a forklift, and he experienced a deep relief that they appeared unharmed. They had to be damned uncomfortable with their arms cuffed and suspended before them.
“Got any water, Jerry?” Greg heard Elissa ask, leaning against the forklift arm to wiggle her fingers and recirculate her blood probably cramped in their bindings.
“No.”
Sissy whined, “Come on, Jerry, there’s a vending machine just by the office door. Spend a buck. Break into the damned thing.”
“No.”
Greg saw the women deflate, their shoulders sagged. Jerry had held them for over ten hours. They were probably pretty thirsty.
“What’s the point in being cruel, Jerry? This is no way to treat a friend,” Sissy pointed out, her voice sounding tired, annoyed, and frightened.
“We’re not friends,” Jerry deadpanned, his malicious vision unmoved from them.
Greg reached into his shirt pocket and drew his own cell phone, set it for video-record, then he carefully positioned the camera so that it caught the broadest possible field of vision in hopes for a record of the whole scene.