Chasing Frost (West Side Series)

by Isabel Jolie

  He’s been missing now for over an hour. They don’t really have a reason to keep him alive. My eyes burn. Panic rises. My throat closes.

  Rhonda touches my arm, and I jerk back, arms up in a defensive stance. When it registers she’s friendly, I lower my arms.

  “Any luck?”

  “No. Go back up to the office. Can you let me know who comes looking for him? Create a full list of every single individual who has asked for him, including the number of times.” I’m not as interested in who is asking as who isn’t, but I don’t tell her that. She nods but doesn’t move.

  “Call me if you find out anything.” Her eyes are glassy. A mirror image of mine. I turn to leave.

  “Where are you going?” she calls.

  “I’m going to get my car and drive over to check out a hunch.”

  “What should I tell that man you came in with?”

  I snap my fingers. “I completely forgot about Connor. I’ll go up with you.”

  I’ll return to the office, but only once I run out of things to do on the ground. The abandoned area in New Jersey lurks in the back of my mind. I don’t believe they’d take Chase to the sex club. That’s not the kind of place you take a kidnap victim. But those streets held many abandoned buildings. In the New York metro, there are tons of spots just like that one. But these men are familiar with that particular area. It’s the only shot I have. It’s a long shot. Other agents haven’t been there before, and I’m not entirely sure I can talk someone else through the area. I’ll visually recognize it.

  I don’t give Agent Connor all my rationale, but he doesn’t seem to mind going for a car ride. “Sure, I’ll go.”

  “Any prints?” I ask him as we exit the building.

  “Prints are all over those cabinets. Any useful ones? Don’t know yet.”

  Hopkins calls as I’m pulling out of my parking garage. Yes, we could use an FBI squad car, but since I don’t have one assigned to me, it would be a process and take time I don’t have.

  “Where are you?” he asks without preamble.

  “On my way to Jersey. Agent Connor and I will come back to the office after we check out some empty warehouses. It’s a long shot.”

  “Go for it,” Hopkins says, then the line goes dead.

  Thirty-One

  Chase

  Screeching tires on concrete wake me. My head throbs. A sharp pain on my wrist intensifies when I tug repeatedly, attempting to touch my head. That guy decked me. Fuck, it hurts.

  I’m horizontal. Soft material covers my nose on the inhale. Shifts away on the exhale. Using the tips of my fingers, I feel behind me and find a hard plastic object. I can barely make out the shape of seats. I must still be in the back seat of the van.

  Based on the silence, I assume I’m alone. If anyone is inside with me, he’s being very quiet. A car door slams. I listen intently. Should I stay silent? Shout for help?

  “You got him?” I recognize that voice.

  “Yep.”

  “I want you to put him in this trunk, under the floorboards, and drive down 95. All the way to the Everglades. Feed the gators. Then come home. You got it?”

  “I’m not driving across state lines. What if he gets away? What if we get stopped? I didn’t sign up for this shit.”

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “It’s okay, Joe. He’s new.” There’s a beat of silence, and the same voice continues, “We’ll kill him before we head down. Hide his body in the back of the van.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “Yeah, he’s in the van. Knocked out.”

  “This the same van you grabbed him in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you can’t drive it down. Someone might’ve made the plates. I’ll send another car over for you to use for the trip. Why the fuck’s he still alive?”

  “I don’t have a silencer. What? I wasn’t expecting this shit. This place is dead at night. Once everyone clears out, we’ll off him, and no one’ll hear.”

  “Who uses this place?”

  “Small company on the top floor. There’s usually about six or eight cars on top-level parking. Down here, where we are, no one ever comes.”

  “What the fuck are you worried about someone hearing a gunshot for, then?”

  “You want this job done right? I’ve got no interest in going back to Rikers. What’re a few hours, anyway?”

  “Where is he?”

  “I told ya. In the van.”

  The grating sound of the van door sliding open fills the vehicle. I can’t see a thing, but I sense men are standing nearby. I don’t recognize any of the voices except for one. The one I recognize is Joe McGurn. I’d heard rumors he had mafia connections. I thought those rumors were bullshit. Now, not so much.

  “Maitlin. Fuck, man. You know, I really liked you.”

  “May I ask what changed your mind?”

  He chuckles at my question like it’s the funniest damn thing he’s heard all day. Then he growls, “How much does that FBI agent know?”

  “About what?”

  “Don’t play dumb. I know you’ve been banging her. What’d you give the feds?”

  “The FBI has my sworn testimony. Killing me won’t help anyone’s case.” I’m not entirely sure my meeting with the FBI constitutes sworn testimony, but he won’t know that.

  “You already met with the feds?”

  “Yes. With my lawyers. Everything is documented. They have all the records.”

  “Don’t matter, my man. There’s this little thing called doubt. Jury gonna have to question if it’s possible you’re the kingpin. As we speak, a look-alike in a baseball cap is boarding a plane out of the U.S. using your passport.”

  Fuck. I stored my passport in a file at work. In one of the now empty file cabinets.

  “And all your money is in the process of being transferred to accounts out of the country. Any jury is gonna find reasonable doubt. You know, it’s really not smart to keep your passport and all your business account information in the same file folder.” He chuckles again, and it’s sinister. “I did like you. Fun to hang out with.”

  Story of my life. And now he’s going to off me. I am not Houdini. There’s no way I’m getting the handcuffs off. Talk. Work some magic.

  “Why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to join you guys? I would have, you know.”

  “Ya know, I asked the guys about bringing you in. I did. But you were always gonna be the patsy. The backup plan.” His voice trails off, and desperation kicks in. I have nothing to offer. No way out. This might actually be how I die. Framed for some accounting scam.

  Sadie. She won’t doubt me. She’ll work to prove I’m innocent. At least my parents won’t have to think I’m a criminal. A disgrace. A visual of my parents graveside comes to mind. My Mom. Okay, Chase. Get it together. Negotiate.

  “I don’t like leaving him for hours in the back of the van.” Joe’s voice is distant. But I can hear feet on concrete close by. Someone flicks something repeatedly. Maybe the top to a pen. Or maybe it’s the click of a lighter. Click. Click. Click.

  “You know, I have all the electronic files. Don’t you want those?” I’m not above begging.

  “Hey, I might have a silencer.” A trunk pops open somewhere nearby. Shit. This is really the end. I’ve been fucking around for years, acting like I have forever, and what do I have at the end of the day? A lot of meaningless shit. An apartment that photographs well. A solid list of hook-ups. An impressive net worth. Good friends. Parents. Sadie. The start of a real relationship. Not a bad list, but…a shitty obit.

  “Nope. Must be back home.”

  “Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. I can testify for you guys. Or still be your fall guy. Just alive.” Even to me, it sounds desperate. They’d be nuts to take me up on it, but no silencer means more time. Keep the ball in play.

  “Shut the fuck up, you god damn moron. I’m going to fucking enjoy this.” I’d recognize his voice anywhere. His nasty cologne fills my nostr
ils.

  Garrick Carlson.

  Thirty-Two

  Sadie

  Agent Connor taps his shoe incessantly as we start and stop. Midtown tunnel traffic fires my nerves. It’s all I can do to not punch the horn. A current electrifies my skin. It’s an emotional response.

  I breathe. The way they taught me. Deep in. Deep out. Think. When the cab let me out, what street was that?

  “How well do you know Jersey?”

  Now he taps the armrest. His head nods to the radio’s beat. I swallow a scream.

  “I live in Hoboken.”

  “Do you know the area when you exit the Midtown Tunnel?”

  “That immediate area?”

  “No. You turn left. Drive down one of the wide avenues.”

  “Toward Jersey City?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get over in the left lane.”

  My hands grip tighter on the wheel. Come on. Come on. Come on…

  When the phone rings, both Agent Connor and I read the name on the screen. Agent Hopkins.

  I press to answer on speaker.

  “Are you in Jersey?”

  “Yes. Turning onto Grand Street now.”

  “You should’ve come back to the office.”

  I don’t say anything, but simply stare at the road ahead. Agent Connor stares out the passenger window, so I can’t read him. After a moment of silence, Hopkins continues.

  “Maitlin’s passport was used this morning at JFK. He’s currently on a flight to Morocco.”

  “I assume by your terminology you recognize he’s not the one who used his passport.”

  “It’s a possibility. Initial airport security footage isn’t clear. He’s wearing a baseball cap. But, Sadie, it’s also possible he is on that plane. It’s possible he played us.”

  “What time did that flight take off?”

  “1:05 p.m.”

  “Timing doesn’t work, Hopkins. He couldn’t have made it to the airport on time.”

  “Video shows him rushing through security.”

  “He was last seen by his PR team right before noon. A whole room of people. How would he make it through JFK security in time for a one o’clock flight?”

  At this point, I’m weaving through a two-lane city street, headed into the bowels of Jersey City. I can’t confirm the timing of Chase’s PR meeting, as I haven’t talked to them yet. I’m basing this on what Rhonda told me. Of course, Rhonda didn’t see Chase. She spoke to him on the phone. I glance at Agent Connor. If he was listening to Rhonda, he knows that. But no. His phone, the falafel. Sure, he could have planted that, but this is Chase. I know Chase. I’m not wrong about him.

  Perspiration lines my palms. My heartrate’s too high, my breaths rapid and light. Slow it down. Focus. I inspect every person on the sidewalk. Looking for something. Anything.

  “Hold on a minute, Sadie.” Someone is speaking to Hopkins, and he either muted us or muffled the receiver.

  Agent Connor taps my arm and points to my left, telling me to turn. Hopkins’s voice returns through the speaker.

  “Two 911 calls came in. Shots on Old Bergen Road. You near there?” I don’t have any idea, but Connor nods.

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt it’s anything, but you might as well check it out. I’m going to head over there, anyway. I want you to show me this warehouse you mentioned.”

  “You know he’s been kidnapped, right?”

  “It’s a possibility. Right now there are two running theories. But it’s coincidental gunshots were fired in the area you want to check out. And you know what I say about coincidences?”

  “You don’t believe in them?”

  “I believe they deserve investigating. Cops have been dispatched. You’ll probably see at least one vehicle when you arrive in the area.”

  Farther up the street, a marked New Jersey police car with lights flashing, no siren, is parked beside an old warehouse building. It’s not the same building that housed the sex club, but we’re in the vicinity. There are a few random cars parked along the street, and the officer is talking to an elderly woman on the sidewalk. In daylight, the area shows signs of life, but the buildings need paint, and the chain-linked fence is rusted. Graffiti decorates buildings and the sidewalk.

  Agent Connor and I park behind the police vehicle and approach him.

  “Officer, I promise. It wasn’t a vehicle backfiring. I’m old enough I know what a gunshot sounds like. You need to go in there and check it out.”

  She’s pointing at the large brick warehouse that encompasses the block. On this side of the sidewalk, the building is entirely brick, but above, the walls are lined with windows with metal panels.

  “Can I help you?” the officer asks us as we approach.

  “FBI.” I hold out my badge. “We’re currently investigating a missing person case in this area. We heard about the 911 calls and thought we’d check it out.” I scan the perimeter of the building for an entrance as Agent Connor takes a step closer to the officer.

  “Calls? I wasn’t the only one who called? Our neighborhood crime prevention program is working.” She sounds giddy.

  “Ma’am, we will investigate. Please go home now, ma’am. I want you to be safe.”

  I listen to the officer handling the woman as I loop back to my trunk. I pull out my Glock .22 and slip it into a waist holster. Agent Connor lifts his jacket, showing me he’s already carrying. He speaks to the officer, and I stride to the corner of the building.

  There’s a parking garage entrance. The left paved ramp goes up to an upper level, the right ramp goes down to a lower level.

  I glance back to locate the woman, wondering exactly where she was when she heard the gunshots. My bet would be she was passing this open entrance.

  Agent Connor arrives at my side. “Want to circle the perimeter or head inside?”

  “I can go in, you go around?”

  “No. We stay together.”

  “Right.” With one more glance down the vacant street, I step forward. “Let’s circle the perimeter. Then search the stairwell.”

  We round the far corner, and the officer approaches from the other side. Perimeter survey complete. The stairwell door is to my right.

  “Employees from the business above were the other emergency call. They were in the top level of the parking garage. They said all employees park on the upper level, and the bottom level goes unused. The caller believed shots came from the bottom level of the parking garage.”

  “Did you call in backup?” I ask. We could walk down the way a car would, or drive down, but it’s open, exposed.

  “An additional officer is on the way. Shots were reported almost fifteen minutes ago. It’s been silent since I got here. There’s been no activity.” He’s talking to us with the laidback demeanor of an extremely bored traffic cop.

  “Can you stand near the garage exit? We’re going down the stairwell.”

  He nods and turns to take his post.

  Connor pulls the heavy metal door. It opens, revealing a poorly lit stairwell. Cinder block walls. Worn concrete steps.

  Fifteen minutes. My insides quake. Nausea rises.

  I grip the cool metal of the Glock. Breathe in control. The shots may be nothing. Do not go to what if. Focus.

  Agent Connor lifts his gun, ready, and I do the same as we descend. A metal door with a square window marks the stairwell exit at the bottom.

  I ease against the wall, descending to the door. I peer through the side of the glass. A maroon van is parked in one space. A black sedan is parked behind it, blocking it in. Men stand around the vehicle.

  “Three men, minimum, two vehicles,” I report back to Connor. The men are talking. From my vantage point, I can’t see details, but based on proximity to car doors, it looks like the men either recently arrived or were about to leave.

  I place my gun back in the holster and adjust my suit jacket to effectively hide it, or at least remove it from immediate observation. Agent Connor mimics me, and
I open the door.

  The door creaks. The men go quiet. One steps back from the van.

  “Hello. A neighbor called in a concern of shots fired in the area. We’re checking out the disturbance. Have you heard anything?” I ask as I approach. Connor trails at my side.

  One of the men grimaces and balls his hand into a fist. Two men keep their heads bowed. Another turns his back to me.

  We’ve walked in on something. I wiggle my fingers, ready. One wrong move, and it’s me and my Glock.

  One of the guys looks familiar. He’s wearing a black crewneck sweater beneath a sports jacket, and black suit pants. Three of the men are tattooed and could be mistaken for gang members, but this guy is a clean-cut businessman. The man who turned his back to us steps away, farther down the side of the van. Out of sight.

  The familiar guy smiles the smile of a smooth politician. One I’d never support. As he does so, I remember. He was at the sex club. It’s hard to be certain because the room was so dark, but I’m almost positive. All my investigative instincts flare. We’re in the right place. Where is Chase?

  “If it isn’t Sydney. It’s Sydney, right?”

  “Yes. You’ve got the advantage. I’m not sure I know your name?”

  The smile doesn’t slip from his face, but there’s a sinister gleam to his overall expression. I rest my hand on my hip, ready, and purposefully make it clear I have a gun.

  “Guys, this lovely young lady frequents Casablanca.” His comment has all three men looking me up and down like he just told them I’m a prostitute available at a discount price.

  Connor leaves my side, walking around the van with a bored expression, scuffing his shoes along the pavement with disinterest.

  “Well, we haven’t been here long, but we haven’t heard anything. Right, fellas?”