Donnell Ann Bell

by Donnell Ann Bell

  “Who’s got Skinny’s cell phone?” Joe asked.

  A vice cop stepped forward. “I win that prize.”

  “If it rings, keep your answers short. Don’t tip our hand.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Bruce Bennett entered as Joe and the other officer’s strapped on their Kevlar vests. “You understand what we want you to do, Mr. Mercer?” the D.A. asked.

  Mercer reached for Luke’s practice jersey. Upon Joe’s request a patrolman had swung by Mel’s house and picked it up. “Walk in to Ramirez’s house and show ‘em this jersey.”

  Joe lowered his head, hoping to God Mel could forgive him for using this tactic. They needed to establish her whereabouts before they swarmed the house. “Great,” Joe said. “Then what?”

  “If the woman’s around I say, ‘What’s your name, pretty lady?’ If she’s not, I say, ‘Where’s the dame?’”

  Pretty straightforward, Joe thought. Conceptually it should work, letting law enforcement know if it was safe to raid, using force. Too often, though, a kink found its way into the system.

  Marksman Sam Ortega crossed the room. “We’re ready when you are, Lieutenant.”

  Joe was pleased to see the man, who not too many weeks ago had been suspended for taking down a crazed meth dealer. Evidently, he’d been reinstated to active duty.

  Joe nodded. He directed an officer to take Skinny back to a holding cell. Joe hadn’t even had to assign a group for this op. As soon as the callout went down, men stepped forward, the majority off duty, Ortega among them.

  Clearing his throat, Joe said, “Thanks. Give me a second, then let’s do it.” He reached for the phone on his belt, walked to the window overlooking the lofts next door, then dialed Mel’s son.

  Out of breath the boy answered after several rings. “Lt. Crandall?”

  “Yeah, Luke, it’s me. Where are you?”

  “I’m with Matt and Coach. We’re at school shooting baskets. What’s going on?”

  “We believe we found your mom, and at this point, we think she’s okay. She’s being held against her will, and part of Maxwell’s scheme is to make her believe they have you.”

  “What? That’s crazy. Why would―”

  “Luke, listen to me. I hate to do this to you. Tell Coach to take you to his house and stay put and out of sight. I’m sure these people don’t travel in the same circles as any of you, but the media may be onto this kidnapping. If they see you out and about, or try to interview you when we’ve convinced them you’re being held someplace else, it could go bad for your mom.”

  A moment’s silence occurred on the line before Luke said, “Got it.”

  “Do I need to relay this information to your Coach?”

  “No, sir. I’ll do it. Find my mom.”

  “That’s the plan. Tell Matt I love him. Your father would be proud, Luke. I’m damn impressed as well. You boys be strong.”

  Surrounded by patrol cars, Joe and the team walked to an unmarked van while Mercer slid into a blue Ford Focus. “Can you hear me?” the black man asked as he switched on the ignition.

  “Copy,” the technician inside the van said.

  “Just want you to know,” Mercer added. “If Ramirez and Maxwell smell a trap, you’ll never identify all my body parts. Take that up with the judge when you’re talking reduced sentence.”

  “Will do, Mr. Mercer,” the D.A. replied. “Help us get Mrs. Norris out alive and it will buy you a great deal of leniency.”

  Mrs. Norris alive. Taking slow, steady breaths, Joe entered the back of the vehicle and sat beside Bruce and the rest of the team.

  The van started to move. The countdown was on.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Free of her bonds, Mel sat at the kitchen table, pressing a palm to her injured cheek.

  Ramirez took a dishtowel and filled it with ice. Handing it to her, he said, “Damn, Max. Stop using her for a freaking punching bag. She walks in the bank all banged up, she’ll attract attention before she makes it to the teller.”

  Mel took the ice pack and gingerly placed it against her jaw. “It doesn’t matter if you beat me to a pulp, I’m not robbing a bank.”

  Drake, who was sitting next to her, leaned forward. “You’ll do whatever we tell you if you want your brat to live.”

  “How do I know you have him? I want to talk to him.”

  “We can arrange that,” Ramirez cut in. “But not yet. Your boy didn’t like our surprise visit. Puked his guts out. My men doused him with Dramamine so he’s sleeping. He’s safe, so far. I give you my word.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Your word means nothing to me. I’ll do as you say, but only if you release my son.”

  “Release? I don’t think so. But I will see that you talk to him.” Ramirez’s cell phone rang. “This may be Skinny right now.” He checked the number and frowned. “Hola, Tess. What can I do for you?”. . . “Skinny?”... “No, chica. He’s not with you?” The gang leader’s voice went from reasonable to undiluted panic. “He didn’t bring you a visitor?”. . .“No, Tess, call no one. You talk to no one, understand?”. . . “No. Sit tight. You’ll hear from me.”

  A mask of fury came over Ramirez’s face as he disconnected the call. He picked up a glass, threw it against the sink where it shattered. “It’s a set up. They’re on to us. Grab your shit, Max. Ándale.”

  As Drake vaulted down the stairs, Ramirez raked a hand through his hair. He pivoted and advanced on her. Mel’s heart slammed in her chest. “So it appears we don’t have your fucking kid after all.” He removed his switchblade and pressed it to her throat. “Change of plans, chica. We no longer have a reason to keep you alive.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Acting as lead officer, Joe directed the cop driving the white utility van to park fifty meters away from the home of Maria Ramirez, sister of longtime gangbanger and thug, Denny Ramirez. Two days before New Year’s Eve, for once Joe was grateful for the cold. It was likely the curious onlookers were staying inside due to the weather as police quarantined the area around 1301 Presidential Drive.

  “C.W.’s moving, L.T.”

  Mercer, the C.W. or Cooperating Witness as the mobile tech referred to him, drove his blue Ford Focus and parked in a cul-de-sac of the middle-class, well-maintained eastside neighborhood. For a moment the man just sat there. Then murmuring, “Here goes everything,” he got out of the car, Luke’s practice jersey in hand.

  “All units prepare to move on my say so,” Joe said. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt under a bomber jacket, he felt for the Glock, tucked in his shoulder holster and slipped out of the van. He started walking, his destination the eastside of Ramirez’s house.

  Mercer rang the bell, then pressed the buzzer again, finally pounding until he said into the mic strapped to his chest, “What gives?”

  “Try the back door,” Joe said. “Unit five, C.W.’s moving to the rear of the property.”

  “Copy that unit one. Visual on C.W.”

  A full thirty seconds of knocking yielded no response. Warrant in hand, with the D.A. looking on, Joe and Sam Ortega kicked in the front door, while cops from all directions swarmed the premises.

  “Police,” Joe yelled, and entered what appeared to be a vacant residence.

  Weapons raised, law enforcement converged on every room, quickly discovering the place was empty.

  Joe’s gut roiled as he said into his shoulder mic, “All clear.”

  “Check this out,” Sam said, pointing to a chip in the wall, broken glass in the sink, counters and floor. “Somebody’s either a careless housekeeper, or a tad upset.”

  Joe moved to the table to view a wadded towel containing ice cubes. Touching it, he said, “Ice hasn’t begun to melt. We just missed them, damn it.”

  “Lieutenant! Sgt. Ortega! Down here,” a
man shouted.

  Joe rushed down the stairs into an unfinished basement. The only furnishing was a single mattress and chair. In the patrolman’s hands, he held several strands of rope. Someone had been held here, and it didn’t take a genius I.Q. to figure out who.

  “No blood,” Bruce said. “I’ll take that as a positive.”

  Joe saw nothing remotely encouraging about the situation. He picked up the mattress, threw it against the wall and roared, “Shit.”

  Speechless, the men in the room stared. But Joe’s outburst had not only lessened his tension, it led to revealing a stack of literature and brochures. Bruce lowered himself to the floor and picked up several flyers. “Good thing we have a warrant to search. Maybe someday you’ll share that fact-finding technique with me. Looks like somebody’s planning a trip near the equator.”

  Joe squatted beside him. “And scouting out banks.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Bruce asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Joe said. “I’ve seen this one coming. Our boys have moved onto the big time.”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Mel wasn’t ready to die. But with her hands bound and trapped in the backseat of Drake Maxwell’s two-door Jeep, she saw no way to avoid the outcome or outwit her captors. She caught a glimpse of her face in the glass. Bruised, beaten... a victim. As she’d been fifteen years earlier. Except that fifteen years later, she’d made a difference in a young boy’s life.

  Or so she hoped. How her death would affect him remained to be seen. God, she wasn’t ready. She thought of Joe, and a smile came to her face. He’d kept Luke safe after all. If Skinny’s woman, or whoever she was, hadn’t called, Joe’s ruse might have worked.

  Thanks, Joe. Mel thought of the special night he’d given her and she blinked back tears. If she had nothing else to hold on to as she left this world, she would treasure that memory.

  From the passenger seat, Ramirez broke into her muse and flashed his blade. “I’ll make this quick, chica, I promise you. Max wanted to do the honors, but we agreed no noise.”

  Shaking her head, she glared at the bastard. “Where are you taking me?”

  Drake laughed. “Old Stage Road. Don’t worry. You’ll have company. We’ll dump you next to Sanchez’s body so you won’t be lonely.”

  “Sanchez?” Mel asked.

  “Like you, bitch, someone who crossed us. It might not be a lifetime in prison,” Drake said. “But somehow dumping you next to him is fitting.”

  They were driving toward the mountains. Throat dry, heart pounding, her mind began to shut down and she accepted her fate. Until self-preservation came calling one last time. “If you spare me, I’ll do the robbery. I’ll get your money, Drake.” To say what came next made her shudder with revulsion. “But I don’t ever want to go back to prison. Take me with you?”

  He met her gaze in the rearview mirror. Laughing, taunting, victorious. He lifted his foot off the gas pedal.

  “Max, no. Hombre, she’s bluffing. Let’s off her, do the job and catch a plane. The cops, they’re on to us.”

  “You and I are the only ones who know about the job,” Drake argued. “We shared it with no one.”

  “You are one crazy son of a bitch. Before we had her kid. Now we have nothing.”

  “We have something,” Max retorted. “Melanie’s downfall is her conscience. She’s fucking weak.”

  Mel held her breath. She might have bought herself time, but what were they talking about? She leaned back in the seat, lowered her head and squeezed her eyes closed. Drake whipped a U-turn. Opening her eyes at the abrupt change in direction, that’s when she saw the pen. Located under the driver’s seat, it wasn’t quite close enough to grasp with two free hands. It would be nearly impossible with her wrists tied. Luckily, this time her feet weren’t bound. Keeping her face impassive, she stretched. Little by little, she worked it in her direction.

  Upfront, Drake and Ramirez lowered their voices, which given the engine noise and tires rotating beneath her, they needn’t have bothered. Clearly, though, they were plotting their next moves and Mel’s involvement in it. She’d maneuvered the pen now directly under her foot. Would they notice? Did she dare? She held her breath and waited. And when Drake took the next curve at a high rate of speed, she complained loudly for him to slow down, then let herself tumble to the floorboard. Once she had the pen firmly in her grasp, she struggled to sit up again.

  She met Drake’s laughing gaze in the rearview mirror. With pen in hand, she tucked it under her thigh and silently laughed back. Without paper, it might not do her any good. But prison had taught her one thing: the simplest items made the most effective weapons.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Outside in Ramirez’s driveway, Joe set up a makeshift command post. Bruce paced and men waited for orders, while Joe and Det. Abernathy studied the clues left under Maxwell’s mattress.

  “It’s definitely one of these, L.T.,” Dale said, handing over two bank flyers. “There’s stars and scribbling all over them.”

  “I agree,” Joe said. “From the looks of things, they were planning to hit one of these banks tomorrow.”

  “Were?” Bruce asked.

  “We upset their little scheme,” Joe replied. “Since we’re on to them, they’ll change their plans.”

  Dale shook his head. “I don’t think so. They’ve gone through too much trouble to abort now. They’re desperate, plus in order to get to Brazil, they’ll need dinero. They’ll be anxious to get out of town.”

  “You think they’ll hit it today?” Joe asked.

  “Yes, sir. Sooner rather than later.”

  Joe glanced around. From across the street, neighbors were taking an avid interest in what his team was doing. Uniformed officers kept them from interfering. “Where’s Mercer?”

  Wearing the handcuffs again, an officer led Mercer from a patrol car and brought him forward.

  “Whose low-rider in the garage?” Joe asked.

  “Ramirez’s,” Mercer said.

  “And Maxwell, what does he drive?”

  Mercer squinted. “Brown Jeep Wrangler, I think.”

  Joe said, “Sam, split up. Your team takes Liberty National Bank. Dale, you and your men come with me. We rendezvous at Assurance Bank.”

  “Got it.”

  “Joe,” Bruce said. “May I remind you you’re expending police resources on a long shot? APBs are out, Highway Patrol’s on alert.”

  “Melanie’s shop is two minutes away from Assurance. I was wrong to not make more waves about the prison guard. I’m not making the same mistake twice.” Then recalling Luke’s words, Joe said, “Besides, I can’t just sit around doing nothing. And right now, a long shot’s all we got.”

  Sam Ortega ended the argument by saying, “Let’s roll, people. A woman’s life is on the line.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Mel tried to get Ramirez’s comb through her tangled, riot of hair. It did little good. She looked as if she’d been through a war.

  She had.

  From over his shoulder, Ramirez studied her. “She looks bad, Max. She’ll walk into the bank and it’s over.”

  “Shut up.” Drake was sweating now. He wore dark glasses, but beneath them Mel suspected his eyes bore the glazed look of a crazy. Fifteen years ago, she’d witnessed that look as he attacked the clerk. Careful to keep her hands out of sight, she tucked the pen into her sleeve.

  The bank came into view and every nerve in Mel’s body activated.

  Drake parked the Jeep. He took a baseball cap from the floorboard, then paused.

  Don’t change your mind now. He had his plan; she had hers.

  He put on the cap, retrieved a gun from the glove box and removed the clip. Tossing the clip back into the box, he said, “This one’s for show. Walk up to that teller you know
so well, show her the piece, tell her if she pushes the alarm, your partner starts shooting, and demand money.

  “I’ll be right behind you, Melanie. One trick and I waste everybody. Remember the clerk? You wouldn’t let one man die. This time? You’ll be a corpse, and you’ll die with a ton of blood on your hands.”

  “Don’t hurt anybody, Drake. That’s the deal. I’ll get you your money, then we’ll go.”

  He grinned. “See there, Ramirez. Didn’t I tell you? Perfect. Keep the motor running. We’ll be right back.”

  Drake helped her climb out of the Jeep, shoved the gun in his belt, closing his jacket over it. He wore tan pans and his look was casual.

  Mel glanced toward the mountains, toward Pikes Peak, and swallowed her fear. This was it. Someone was going down. All she could hope was it wouldn’t be her.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  “ETA, five minutes,” Dale shouted into the handheld radio as he and Joe sped down Garden of Gods Boulevard. Joe gripped the armrest. Bruce was right. What were the chances Maxwell would hit the bank at this particular time? All Joe had to go on was that he’d interrupted their scheme. And experience, of course. Criminals got stupid and greedy. They wouldn’t walk away with nothing.

  Melanie. Screw this insane world. Joe thought of her laugh, her passionate kiss, her beautiful body. The old adage, the good die young stuck in his head and his eyes filled.

  The late December day might be cold, but the Colorado sun was intense. He wiped at his eyes, pretending to adjust his sunglasses.

  Dale said, “For what it’s worth, L.T. I hope your lady’s okay.”

  Joe shot Dale a glance. His lady. The entire force knew. Joe didn’t give a damn.