by E. C. Diskin
His cell rang. Duvane spoke before he could say anything.
“Marcus. I’m standing in the middle of this forest preserve you sent me to.”
“And?”
“And I’m looking at your kid.”
“Have you questioned him?”
“Oh no. He’s dead.”
He knew it. “Callahan’s got Abby.”
“What?”
“He got to her place just before me. Seems like he staged another arrest. Kids on the street said she was arrested. Put in a black Mercedes by an undercover cop.”
“I’ll get more officers on the street. We’ll get him.”
“He’s gonna kill her.”
“We’ll find him. Hold on.”
It seemed like minutes of deadly silence. Marcus got back to his car and headed south. Duvane came back on the line. “Okay, we’ve got an APB, added kidnapping.”
“I’m heading south on Clark. Maybe he’ll go to his office.”
“I’m going to have officers check the other properties too.”
TWENTY-FIVE
ABBY’S wrists burned where the handcuffs had scraped her skin. Her right shoulder throbbed from being thrown into the car. Lying on her side, she could feel the vibrations of her phone. She knew it was Marcus. She sat up slowly. Callahan watched her in the rearview mirror. She needed to see where he was taking her.
“Why are you doing this?”
He looked at her eyes through the mirror. “So tell me Abby, how’d you get rid of the drugs?”
Abby didn’t answer.
He smiled. “Not to worry. I’ve got some more.”
She spoke softly. “I don’t do drugs.”
“Oh yes you do, actually. Such a shame too. Such a pretty lady with so much potential, just thrown away.”
He’s going to kill me, she thought. “Why are you doing this?”
He ignored her question. “Why didn’t you mind your own business?”
And then, before she could respond, “We had such a good time that night, Abby. I really thought that it might actually turn into something.”
Abby cringed at the thought—at having spent an entire evening with this psycho and maybe even sleeping with him.
“Didn’t you have a good time that night, Abby?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared out the window, avoiding his probing eyes in the mirror. She was watching the roads carefully. They’d gone south and were now heading west. She thought they were on Division. They were heading back to that neighborhood.
“Why didn’t you call me?” He actually sounded earnest. “It’s because of the boyfriend, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer. Who was he talking about? She looked at him.
He must have seen the question in her eyes. “Well, I just assumed he was your boyfriend. You and I have this great time, share that hot kiss on the dance floor—I could tell you were into it—and then as soon as we see that guy out front, you blow me off. I’m sorry, but what could that guy have that I don’t?”
He was grinning at her through the rearview mirror.
It started to come back. “David,” she said, remembering.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Finally, someone had jogged her memory. They had been standing under the awning in front of the Drake, waiting for the valet to bring his car around. David was there, putting his fiancée into a cab for some reason, and he came over and introduced himself to Callahan and said hi. She remembered his worried expression and her embarrassment when David had asked to be introduced and she didn’t know Callahan’s full name.
“You picked that idiot over me! Come on, Abby. Really? What were you thinking?”
And then she couldn’t help it. A little smile crept on her face. Such relief. David’s car had arrived and he’d offered her a ride. She’d accepted and left this psycho at the hotel. Thank God.
“What have I done? I don’t know anything.” She was watching out the window—trying to remain focused on where they were headed.
“Let’s not play games, Abigail. There’s no point. We both know you saw me coming out of Reggie’s that night. You went to the Quick Mart auction. You were researching forfeitures. You started working with that Nathan Walters.”
Her heart jumped when she heard him say Nate’s name. She didn’t want anyone else in danger.
“I didn’t plan on killing anyone, you know. But that whore saw me plant the drugs. I couldn’t let her go.”
“Of course,” Abby muttered.
Callahan looked back at her and smirked at her fake agreement.
“And then that little A-rab had to go hire a lawyer.”
Ali? “Are you talking about Ali Rashid and his friend? You killed them too?”
“You mean his boyfriend? Oh yeah. I didn’t plan to. Fucker should have just let it happen. Usually these fucking foreigners don’t know what to do. It’s like taking candy. They can’t fight it. Too much risk, too much money. But that little fuck went and got himself a fancy lawyer and they were going to file suit and cause all sorts of grief. Couldn’t have that.”
Abby’s heart sank.
“And you!”
She looked at him then.
“You brought this on yourself, Abby. None of this had to happen. Hell, once I met you and you didn’t seem to recognize me, I actually thought for a minute that I might have found myself a…,” he looked back at her. “I just planted the seeds in case you started nosing around. In case you could identify me. But you just couldn’t stay out of it. So now I guess we’ll have to move forward with you too.”
“How can you do this? You’re destroying people’s lives. Stealing their property. Innocent people! You were a police officer once. Whatever happened to ‘serve and protect’?”
“Oh please. That faggot A-rab was probably a terrorist. I did the world a favor. That woman at Reggie’s was a crackhead whore. Every person I ever set up was a piece of shit, lowlife.”
“What about Juan Domenz?”
Callahan fell silent for a moment. “Wow, you really have done your homework.”
“Yes, and I know about the prosecutor in your pocket. But you’re not going to get away with this. People know.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re a monster. How can you be so—”
“So, what? Don’t judge me. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re from money. Lake Forest. Every opportunity in the world.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“I know you’re a psychopath. And you’ll never get away with this. No one will believe I’m a drug dealer. It’s ridiculous.”
“You know they will.” Those killer dimples appeared.
No. Callahan didn’t know about Marcus or Duvane. She just needed to survive long enough for them to get to her.
He pulled into a motel parking lot and stopped by the neon OPEN sign in the office window. “Wait right here, love. I’ll be just a sec. And don’t do anything stupid. The windows are tinted and you’re safer in my car than out there.” He smiled again like this was just as casual as a date, then got out and locked the doors. Abby watched the metal lock descend into the door.
She fell over onto the seat and rolled over, trying to give her hands room to move. If she could just reach into her coat pocket and get to her phone. She had new speed dials set up and Marcus was 1. Her hands flailed, pulling on her coat, trying to reach into her pocket. There. She could feel it. Now, if she could just feel the buttons, figure out which one would be 1 and which would be send. The driver’s door opened. Abby froze. Callahan pulled the car around to the back of the building and parked. He hopped out, opened the back door, and got into the back seat. She worked to prop herself back up to a seated position.
“Now Abby, let’s just take off this coat,” he said, opening her coat and pulling it down so that it covered the cuffs, “and take a look at this.” He pulled out a gun and pointed the barrel at her eyes. “See this. I don’t want to have
to use it. Now just get out of the car with me and don’t speak and you’ll be fine. Try to scream or make a scene and I’ll just shoot you. No one ’round here going to be any kind of witness.” He opened the door, got out, and pulled her to do the same. It was freezing. She didn’t see anyone in the parking lot. Her coat, now draped behind her back, covered the handcuffs, and she could feel the barrel of Callahan’s gun pushing into her side as he grabbed a leather briefcase from his trunk and walked her up the stairs and into room 109.
The smell in the room immediately attacked her senses. Mold, dust, neglect.
Callahan flipped the switch on the wall and a fluorescent ceiling light exposed the burnt-orange shag carpeting and dirty walls. He put his gun on the glass-topped table by the door, and moved to switch on the big television that sat upon a seventies-style cabinet along the wall. “Get comfortable,” he offered, with a wave toward the large orange, brown, and yellow flower bedspread. He turned to chain the door. Abby saw a bathroom just off to the left and clumsily ran toward it and shut the door behind her with her body weight. With her back against the door, she fumbled to lock the handle, and slid down to the floor.
She could hear him laughing. He raised his voice. “Abby, babe, there’s nowhere to run. Don’t fight it. It’s going to happen. Just make it easier. Maybe you’ll even enjoy it.”
· · ·
TRIP took off his leather gloves and opened the case. He pulled some latex gloves from the inside pocket, slipped them on, and began to line up some vials, needles, a rubber band, and some pills. He sat on the bed then, looked at his watch, and began to shuffle through the channels with the remote control.
In a raised voice, he began. “Now Abby, come on. You either come out here on your own or I bust the door down.”
She yelled back. “You’ll never get away with this.”
“What? Buying foreclosed property? Hardly a crime.”
“I am talking about murder, about setting up bogus forfeiture cases with stolen drugs, buying property with stolen money.”
Trip nodded, impressed. She was smart. “Interesting theory, Abby, but there’s no proof.”
“And what about me? This is kidnapping.”
“Well, actually, this is just a sad scene. A bright lawyer. Up and coming. But you know how stressful those jobs can be.” Trip smiled and continued. “According to her neighbors, shady characters had been coming over, making a scene. Maybe even a repeat drug offender!” He mocked. “A police officer had been to her office. People were talking. She’d been arrested for trafficking. Perhaps she was just overwhelmed about her life falling apart.”
He waited for an answer. She didn’t say a word. He’d gotten to her. Bitch was not going to take him down. “Now don’t worry too much. We’ll make this quick and painless.”
· · ·
ABBY was rolling around on the floor, pulling at her coat, trying desperately to reach the cell phone in the coat pocket. She looked around the bathroom for a way out. There was no window. Nowhere to go. But could she hurt him? Nothing. Just a pedestal sink, toilet, shower. The top of the toilet tank could be used to smash his head, but with the cuffs on, she was useless. Grabbing at the coat hanging behind her, she tried to get to her cell phone again.
There. She felt the buttons and got oriented. She hit 1 and send and then the side button for the speaker. It beeped. No one approached. She counted to three and began shouting to Callahan.
· · ·
MARCUS felt panicked. Not like he was working a case. More like his own sister had been kidnapped. He’d called her cell several times. Where were they? He had already driven by Callahan’s office but there was no sign of the Mercedes. He headed toward the west side. He didn’t know where to go. The helpless feeling was all too familiar. What if she was already dead? He pounded the steering wheel with each dire thought.
He drove slowly along Division, looking down every side street, scanning every car that passed. It was dark. He gripped the cell phone in his hand and stared out the window. A group was gathered in front of a shop on the corner just a block ahead. He spotted Darnel. Maybe they could help.
But it had been almost a year now. He’d gained trust and respect in the neighborhood. These guys helped lead him to Callahan in the first place. What would happen if he leveled with them? It would be a betrayal. Duvane would freak. Months of undercover work, blown. He pulled over anyway.
The phone rang in his hand. He almost jumped. Before he even said hello he heard Abby’s voice. It sounded like she was a couple of feet away from the phone but she was yelling. “So Trip, you’re from Lake Forest, from money. Why become a cop? Why not go into the family business?”
There was a pause and Marcus listened intently. “Come on Abby—tell me where you are.”
She was talking again. “Why bring me to this seedy motel? The Shangri-La?! I would think you’d have higher standards!” Another pause. “No, don’t!” Her voice sounded more panicked. “I’m going to the bathroom!”
Marcus jumped out of his car and ran up to the group of men on the corner. Darnel threw up his hand for a greeting. Marcus clasped the raised hand and gave the requisite half-hug. The others were ready to do the same. Marcus ignored them. “Dude—where’s the Shangri-La?”
The boys started laughing. “The Shangri-La!”
“Sounds like Marcus has found some company!” one of the men said.
“She got any friends, dude?” another said.
Darnel laughed too. “You got a hooker, dude?”
Marcus grabbed Darnel and pushed him against the wall. “Tell me where the hotel is, now!”
“Chill, man. It’s just around the corner, there.” Darnel pointed toward the place.
“Yeah, what the fuck, Marcus?” another said.
Marcus let go of him. “Thanks. Sorry, man. I gotta go.”
“What the fuck, Marcus?”
Marcus ran back toward his car.
Darnel yelled after him, “Yo, Marcus! You need help?”
He didn’t answer. He got in his car, took the left turn and saw the sign down the road on the left. He pulled into the lot and drove around the back. There it was. The Mercedes. His heart was racing. He ran to the office, flashed his badge and a picture of Callahan, and got the information he needed.
Back at his car, Marcus called Duvane.
“They’re here. Shangri-La motel on Maple, just off of Western. Room 109. I need back-up.”
“Okay. Marcus, now wait for my guys. We don’t want to lose your cover. This might not be over.”
“We can’t wait. He’s going to kill her.”
“Marcus—”
“She could be dead by the time they get here.”
“Marcus, wait,” Duvane said, angrier now, obviously trying to control him.
Marcus cut him off. “I’ve got a plan. I won’t blow cover. Just get here as fast as you can.” He hung up the phone before Duvane could say more. He looked into the backseat and saw what he needed.
TWENTY-SIX
TRIP looked at his watch. He’d lost his whole day to dealing with Patrick and now this bitch. He needed to get this done and get out of here. He leaned against the bathroom door. “All right, Abby. Last warning. Get the fuck out of the bathroom or I’ll kick the door in.” There was no response.
Then, a sudden knock at the motel door. Trip grabbed his gun and pulled a silencer from his inside coat pocket. He went to the door, ready. He slowly pulled back the window curtain to see a massive black man with a large gold medallion around his neck standing at the door. Maybe he was just at the wrong room. Trip waited silently for a moment. Perhaps he’d move on.
The man pounded again. “Yo, blondie. I seen your car out front. I know it’s you. Open up.”
Trip didn’t respond. He didn’t recognize the voice or the man. He’d busted hundreds of guys that looked just like this over the years. He stepped back from the door, unsure what to do.
The man continued and his voice got softer. He was lean
ing in like he didn’t want to be heard by anyone else. “I saw you man. I saw you with Delia. I know what you did.”
Trip froze. Someone else he needed to deal with. The man didn’t wait for a response. He was speaking close to the door, in a hushed tone. “I don’t give a shit, man. I just need a favor. I need a little action, man. Delia told me you liked to party. I’m shaking out here.”
He looked around the room. And then he couldn’t help but crack a smile. It was almost too perfect. Trip opened the door with his gun drawn. The man entered with hands raised and looked over at the drugs on the table. A big grin swept over his face. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”
Abby yelled “Help!” from the bathroom. The man lunged at Trip, an elbow to the nose, and went for his gun. Trip kneed him in the groin and pointed the barrel into the man’s temple. He fell back slightly, and Trip was able to point it at his face, but then the man kicked his kneecap and Trip stumbled. His hand knocked the table and the gun flew. It landed by the foot of the bed, near the bathroom door. The man went for it. Trip grabbed the lamp next to him and smashed it over the man’s head. The man fell to his hands and knees. Blood began seeping out of a two-inch gash in the back of his head. Trip kicked him hard then in his side. The man was barely conscious. Trip kicked him again. The man rolled onto his back. His eyes were closed. Trip kicked again, this time his head, and ran to the gun. The bathroom door opened slightly. He pointed the gun at the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. A slight ping exploded from the silencer. Abby screamed and slammed the door.
Trip wiped the sweat from his brow and caught his breath. His kneecap was throbbing. His nose felt broken. He wiped his face. There was blood all over his glove. “Abby,” he began again, patience fried, “get the fuck out here or I’m busting in.” There was no response. He moved to the bathroom door and gave it a small kick with his good leg. He felt the weight of her body against the cheap hollow door. Abby begged him to stop.