“Mr. Taylor,” I repeated over and over. “Wake up. Mr. Taylor, come on, wake up.” He didn’t respond.
I looked for a closet light, but the socket was empty. It was too dark outside to get any kind of light from the window. My eyes had adjusted as much as they would, but it wasn’t enough. I pried at the knot on his gag until it was undone, and then unknotted the rags that bound his wrists and ankles. One by one I unbent his knees and laid his legs out in front of him. He hadn’t reacted, hadn’t appeared to notice that I was even there.
I ran out front and felt around for my untraceable phone. I pressed the 9 and the 1 before stopping to think about what Nick’s dad’s presence meant. Him being here was no accident. The poker game, the trip to Atlantic City, the hot tables and winning streak that kept him from answering his phone had all been made up. So had the message that he was okay. Whoever was stalking me had kidnapped him and made his life miserable to send a message to me. But how long had he been here? And why had he been brought back at all?
The fight. Whoever had done this must not have known that the fight was staged. He must not have known about the extraction by the parade location or the fact that the bearded, mustached, side-burned guy driving the Crown Vic was Nick himself. Which meant I couldn’t be the one to find Nick’s dad, because it would give away the fact that none of that had been real. It would bring the danger right back to the people I loved.
I called Nick.
“No names,” I said before he had a chance to talk.
“If that’s how you want to play it,” he said.
“I’m serious—this is serious. You need to come back. Right now.” I fought to keep the hysteria out of my voice, but was unsuccessful.
“Are you okay?”
“Come inside and go directly to your bedroom. You’ll know what to do when you get there.”
I hung up the phone and called Detective Loncar. “Nick’s dad was tied up in a closet in his old apartment. He has a pulse but it’s faint. He had a heart attack a few months ago so this can’t be good for his recovery. I untied him but I can’t be here when Nick gets here or else whoever did this will know I called him and it’ll keep going—”
“What’s the address?” I rattled off the apartment number and cross streets. “Get out of there. Now. I’m on my way.”
I filled a cup with water and carried it back into the bedroom. Nick Senior was still unconscious. I set the cup next to him and put my hand on his hand. “Please be okay, Mr. Taylor. Please. I’ll make this right. I promise. Just be okay.” Tears streamed down my face and my breath hitched in my throat. Headlights appeared outside. I didn’t know if they belonged to Nick or Loncar or somebody else, but I couldn’t risk being seen.
I also couldn’t just leave Nick’s dad there alone.
I climbed into the closet next to Nick’s dad and wedged my shoulders between a guitar amp and a pair of skis. A row of men’s tailored trousers hung in front of me. I kept my hand on my untraceable cell phone in case of emergency, pulled my feet back into the darkness, and wrapped my arm around my knees. Nick would show up. He’d take his dad to the hospital. Loncar would help him. When they were gone, I’d leave.
It was the best I could come up with, considering the circumstances.
The front door opened and closed. “Kidd?” Nick called out.
I slid the closet door closed in front of me and held my breath. Had he seen the dead taxi parked out back? Had he put two and two together and known I was still there? Had I made a grave error in not leaving when I had the chance?
I couldn’t see anything past the fabric of the hanging trousers. The pile of the carpet would mask the sound of his footsteps as he moved throughout the apartment. I’d told him to come to the bedroom. He was taking his time—taking too long. He didn’t understand the urgency. I put my hand on the closet door to slide it open when I heard another voice.
“Mr. Taylor.”
“Detective Loncar. Why are you here?”
“I got an anonymous tip.”
“Where are you going?”
“The bedroom.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
The voices grew closer. I tightened my arms around my knees and sat as still as I could. The doors in front of the end of the closet were open and Nick senior’s legs stuck out front. As soon as Loncar and Nick entered the bedroom, they’d see him.
“Dad!”
Conversation was replaced by movement. From my angle, I watched hands reach inside the closet and grasp Nick Senior’s shoulders. His body shifted, and I pictured Loncar slowly pulling him, legs first, out of the closet while Nick kept his head from moving about too much. I recognized Nick’s hands, his shirt sleeves cuffed up once at his wrists, the hands on his watch glowing in the darkness of the closet. Nick Senior was reclined back onto the carpet. Nick’s wrist bumped the cup of water, which tipped and spilled on his dad’s face. Nick Senior grunted, and then moved his head back and forth.
“What are ya doing?” he said. His voice was scratchy and dry, as if out of practice of speaking.
“Can you tell me your name?”
“If you don’t know my name then you should get out of here before I call the police.”
“Dad, he is the police,” Nick said. “He needs to see if you know your name.”
“Nick Taylor. Senior.”
“Where are you?”
“By the looks of things, I’m in my son’s apartment.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three. You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“You need to get to a hospital. I’ll call an ambulance. I’ll come by to get your statement later tonight, but right now, your health is top priority.”
The voices shifted to grunts as two men helped the third stand up. I closed my eyes and said a silent thank you to the powers that be. The sounds moved from the bedroom to the hallway. I rocked back and forth ever so slightly, praying that Nick Senior would be okay. Sirens announced ambulances. Minutes passed where the only sounds were those of emergency technicians doing their jobs. I heard a door close, and then silence. I counted to three hundred as slowly as I could and then slid the door open and pushed the trousers out of my way.
Detective Loncar stood in front of the bed with his arms crossed in front of his chest.
Chapter 27
MONDAY: WILL THIS DAY EVER END?
I held my finger up in front of my mouth and then pointed toward the door. Loncar squatted down in front of me. “They’re gone,” he said. “I would be too except I recognized the taxi out back as the one I thought I returned to the graveyard.” He kept his voice low.
“Here’s what happened,” I said, matching his volume. “I talked to a reporter at the newspaper and told him I was sending an expose about Bethany House. I thought we could smoke Pritchard and his partner out. I came here because I thought it would be empty and I’d be safe.”
“I am not going to ask how writing an expose for a newspaper led you to find Mr. Taylor tied up in the closet, because it appears as though whatever your reasoning was, it may have meant the difference between that man living and dying.”
I felt heat climb my neck and then my face. Breathing became a little more difficult. Snooping didn’t make me a good person. It was a freak thing that Nick’s dad had been in there. And sooner or later the question was going to come up, how I knew, how I found him, how I managed to save his dad—
Loncar put his hand on top of mine in a fatherly gesture. “Ms. Kidd,” he said. “Do not beat yourself up over whatever it was that led you to that closet door. You did the right thing.” He paused and squeezed my hand. “Your boyfriend will understand.”
I looked him in the eyes and saw understanding and forgiveness and pride. Loncar’s wife and daughter had to be two of the stupidest people I could imagine if they didn’t see how much this man deserved to be a part of their family.
After climbing out of the closet, I described to
Loncar the condition in which I’d found Nick Senior. He took notes in his little spiral top notebook and tucked it back inside his suit jacket pocket. He clicked the end of his pen and put that away as well.
“Do you have somewhere to go?” he asked.
“Can I go back to my house?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet.”
I nodded slowly. It was after midnight and I didn’t care much where I went, as long as I could sleep. I ran the options through my head: the motel where I’d been sprayed by bullets, the abandoned offices where I’d found Tahoma going through Nancie’s files. I thought of my friends, who would readily offer their sofas for my use, only I couldn’t trade their safety for mine.
There was only one option and as much as I hated it, I knew I couldn’t hold up Loncar any longer. “There’s one place,” I said.
“Good. Keep your phone on and lock your doors. Whoever kidnapped Mr. Taylor brought him back because they didn’t think there was value in keeping him. His return was either a message or a change in their game plan.”
“Are you any closer to figuring out what my coworker wants or who he’s working with?”
“Right now I’m more concerned with making sure nobody else gets hurt.” Loncar climbed into a dark, unwashed sedan and backed out of the parking lot. He turned on his headlights and then pull onto the shoulder. He wasn’t going to leave until he knew I had left, too.
I packed up my phone and pulled the beret on over my hair. I left Nick’s extra key on the kitchen counter and flipped the lock from the inside so. Unless Nick left additional keys hidden inside a rock in his garden, there would be no temptation to re-enter. I climbed into the dead taxi and drove to the most remote place I could think of. The dead taxi graveyard.
The next morning, I woke up in the backseat of the taxi. Sunlight streamed across the cars in the lot, casting them in brilliant yellow tones. I desperately needed a bathroom and I cursed the decision to not hold onto Nick’s spare key. Of all the opportunities to turn over a new leaf, this was definitely not my best choice.
While this was not a normal hour for me to rise and shine, the cramped sleeping quarters had limited the number of comfortable positions one could find in the backseat of a taxi. And as soon as I found myself awake, memories from the previous night assaulted me. No way could I sleep now.
I got out of the taxi and stretched my hands over my head, first the left and then the right, stretching out all of the muscles down either side of my body. I tipped my head from side to side, too, and then shrugged my shoulders in circles, first to the back, and then to the front. I stretched out my neck a second time and then walked across the lot in search of a public restroom or a Porta Potty. Men had it so easy.
Past three rows of taxis in need of tires on various parts of their vehicle, I found a small office. The doors were open and a navy blue nylon windbreaker rested on the back of the chair behind the desk. A series of hooks were mounted along the right hand wall. I counted eight across and eight down, creating a perfect grid except for the empty spots by numbers twenty, twenty-one, and twenty-two. Key chains hung from each hook, marked only with a small round tag with a number written on it. I picked up one set of keys and then looked out at the lot. From the ground, it would have been hard to identify any of the taxis. From the elevated position of the office, I could see that a number had been painted onto the roof of each yellow taxi as well.
Hanging on the wall next to the taxi keys was a long wooden block with the word Restroom written on it in thick black letters. Two silver keys hung from the end. I crossed the room and picked the block up. The restroom must be near. I left the office and circled the perimeter until I found the rusty brown door. The key fit the lock, and the facilities, while far from what I would have liked, were operable. When I was done I ran my hands under the sink water for well over two minutes, lathering up several times. I dried my hands on my sailor T-shirt and doused them in two pumps of goo from the jug of hand sanitizer that sat inside the door. Satisfied that I’d killed anything I might have picked up while inside, I let the door shut behind me and went back to the office to return the keys. Only this time, the office wasn’t vacant.
Chapter 28
TUESDAY MORNING
A slate blue cat carrier sat on the desk alongside of a mug of coffee. Steam rose from the mug, indicating that it was a fresh pour. The door to the carrier was closed, but when I stepped closer and peeked inside, I saw long white fur. A small face looked up at me. Around the neck of the cat was a collar made from a turquoise and red beaded choker.
It was Jennie Mae Tome’s fluffy white cat, Navajo.
I glanced around the interior of the small office. A brown leather briefcase sat on the floor next to the wall of keys. I would have recognized it even if it didn’t have the letters P. S. monogrammed in gold next to the combination lock. It was the briefcase I’d found in Pritchard Smith’s office last week.
Bells, alarms, and warning flags seemed to go off. I grabbed the cat carrier. Underneath it was a sheet of paper with the words demo 21—23. I looked out the window. A large crane was parked next to the taxi where I’d slept. Giant metal jaws descended on it until the teeth tore into the roof of the taxi and lifted it up into the air.
I grabbed the cat carrier, the briefcase, and the keys on the bottom corner of the wall and ran out of the office. The noise of the large crane drowned out any other sounds. I ducked behind the taxi on the end and strained to see the man operating the crane. If he was Mohammed’s cousin who oversaw the taxi graveyard, then why would he have Jennie Mae Tome’s cat inside the office with him? Why did he have Pritchard Smith’s briefcase? Why would he be destroying the car where I’d slept? There should be no connection between those things.
With the thumb on my left hand, I flipped the round paper disc that was attached to the keys. It was marked #3. I ran into the sea of taxis and scanned the vehicles for a corresponding number. The cat carrier shifted and Navajo howled. I raised the carrier to my face. “Bear with me,” I said. “I have to find us a car.” I held the carrier against my hip with my arm wrapped over the top of it. From the ground level, I couldn’t see the numbers on the top of each taxi.
I set the cat carrier and the briefcase down and climbed on the hood of the closest taxi. Number eight. Next to it was number seven, and next to that number six. I hopped back down, grabbed Navajo and the briefcase and counted out the cars until I reached number three. I jammed the keys into the door and unlocked it, and then set Navajo’s carrier on the passenger side floor. I tossed the briefcase on the seat next to me and started up the car.
The taxis were parked close to each other and there was no way out without causing damage. I put the car into gear, pulled the steering wheel to the left, and stepped on the gas. The taxi lurched forward and it rammed the side of the ones next to it. I nudged the obstructing cars out of the way until I was past the office and on the road. From my rearview mirror, I saw the crane in the graveyard holding a yellow taxi in the air. Moments later, it dropped to the ground. The glass in the windshield shattered on contact.
It was too early in the morning for that level of noise. Someone was bound to call the police, and if the call made it to Loncar, he’d put two and two together. I could give him my version of events during the inevitable follow up phone call.
My untraceable phone, the laptop, and my temporary identification were in that car. Again, I had nothing. Nothing but Pritchard Smith’s briefcase, Navajo, and the key to dead taxi #3. There wasn’t much I could do about returning Pritchard’s briefcase now, but I could get Navajo back to Jennie Mae. I drove to her house.
The traffic was light. After snaking through the streets of West Ribbon, I turned and drove east toward Amity. I didn’t know how I’d explain a visit at such an unusual hour, but if Jennie Mae was anything like me, she’d prioritize the return of her cat over sleep. I ignored the posted speed limits and blew through several yellow lights. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have
minded if a cop put on his siren and followed me there.
I pulled into the long gravel driveway and slowed considerably. A landscaping van was parked next to the house. The back doors were open and a row of potted trees and shrubs were scattered about the driveway. I parked the taxi on the opposite side of it and climbed out. I picked up Navajo’s carrier and approached the wide open front door.
“Jennie?” I called out. “Miss Jennie? It’s Samantha Kidd. I have Navajo.” I stepped into the living room and looked around. The rugs had been rolled up, the collection of frogs had been removed from the shelves, and the cats were missing from the divan. The only thing that remained was the empty rocking chair that I’d sat in during our visit, covered loosely by the earth toned afghan.
I set the carrier on the divan and opened the door. Navajo appeared scared. I cooed at her and blew kisses, and then reached in and pulled her out. She reached her paws toward my shoulder and her claws dug into the flesh through my striped shirt. I stroked her fur and tried to calm her down while I looked for Jennie Mae or Mr. Charles.
“Jennie? Hello? Who’s here?” I called. I carried Navajo to the kitchen and set her down by an empty bowl.
There had been so many cats here on my previous visits that I didn’t understand how there could be only one bowl on the ground. I found a can of cat food in the refrigerator and forked it into the bowl, and then filled a separate white china bowl with water. I pushed the bowl toward the opening of the pantry. Navajo’s head peeked out. She buried her head in the food and made the kind of eating noises that reminded me of Logan.
I called 911 and told them about the empty house. I had no firm evidence that what I saw was illegal, but after the theft, I wasn’t taking any chances. It seemed odd that someone had arranged for movers to pack up the contents of the house but that nobody was there. Was this going to turn out like Nick’s apartment, with Jennie Mae and the rest of her cats hidden inside a closet?
Grand Theft Retro (Style & Error Mystery Series Book 5) Page 18