by Diane Capri
Metcalfe nodded. Made sense. “Hallman wasn’t thinking of skipping town though, right?”
Spinney hesitated. “Dunno. Just looking after your interests, like you asked me to.”
Metcalfe grunted. Spinney barely looked after himself, but the information might prove useful. “So, where’s Gotting?”
“Ged’s Place. Burlington.”
Metcalfe thought for a moment. “On Compton?”
“That’s it.”
“This stays between us and no one else. Got it?”
“On my word.”
“Tell the bartender I’ll be by later to pay your bill.”
“Thanks, Henrik.”
Metcalfe hung up. He realized Spinney had embellished a bit because he’d been looking to convert what he offered into payment for booze. But it was a worrying message anyway.
First order of business for an ex-con like Hallman was a roof over his head. So either he planned to crash with Gotting, or they were leaving Kansas City. Neither possibility was comforting, given the fifty grand Hallman owed. Metcalfe didn’t feel like chasing a deadbeat all over hell’s half-acre, either.
Metcalfe started the BMW. He’d waited a long time to get his money back from that loser. The last thing he’d do now was let Hallman walk away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Monday, November 27
8:00 p.m.
Denver, Colorado
Jess cleared the papers from her dining table, organized and stashed them in a desk drawer in the spare bedroom.
Her apartment was small, sparsely furnished, and barely used. Not because she disliked the place or avoided memories. Like romantic relationships, she had no time for decorating or hobbies or entertaining. One event had overwhelmed all others. Peter. Until she found him, he was her primary reason for being.
Henry Morris was due at eight o’clock. He arrived precisely on time, to the minute, as always. His reliability was one of his most endearing qualities to Jess. She’d had very little in her life she could count on before Henry.
She opened the door.
He held out a shopping bag from the local organic produce store. “I come bearing gifts.”
She peered inside. “Does one of your gifts have a cork?”
He grinned as he pulled out a Cabernet. “Ah, yes. The main ingredient of the best salads.”
She arranged the vegetables on two plates while Henry found salad dressing in her fridge.
He sat facing her at the circular dining table and poured two glasses of wine. They clinked glasses before they began eating. Jess noticed again how pleasant he was to have around. She’d been eating alone for too many years.
“They traced that call you asked me to track down to a payphone at a gas station in Kansas City, south of the city center,” Morris said after the small talk.
She nodded. “Kansas, not Missouri?”
“Right. But either way, not in the state of Colorado,” Morris replied. “Which is enough to suspect interstate child kidnapping. If so, that’s FBI jurisdiction. Which means I can help you with this, using bureau resources.”
She nodded slowly but said nothing. She’d received calls from out of state before. None of them had panned out. “Any usable prints on the phone?”
He shook his head. “It’s a public phone, and it was raining. They took the coins. We’ll get what prints we can. DNA, too, if there is any. We could get lucky. But we don’t expect much.”
“Did he make any other calls from that phone?” She twirled her fork around the lettuce on her plate.
“Not likely. It’s not a popular phone. Not used much. I have a list of calls over the past two weeks. Nothing lights up our computers so far.”
An exasperated sigh escaped her lips.
He refilled her glass. “The call could be nothing, Jess. A hoax. Some scam artist looking to make a quick buck from the reward. Like all the ones you’ve received before.”
“Maybe. But the others didn’t have the… I don’t know what to call it. Passion, maybe? This guy had passion in spades.”
“I’ve listened to the recording several times,” Morris nodded. “He sounds like he’s hyped up, but that’s not uncommon for someone in the middle of…”
“A shakedown?” she arched her eyebrows and frowned.
He nodded again. “If he calls again, try to get some facts from him. We’ll continue to monitor your numbers for a few days. A week, maybe.”
“I’ve got my work calls redirected straight to my cell now.”
“I know.” He held up his phone, “You get a call, and I get a computer-generated notification immediately.”
“On the first round, he was only trying to soften me up. Make me anxious, so I’ll give him the money.”
“Right.”
“I’ve got news for him.”
Henry laughed. “Didn’t work, huh?”
“Damn right.” She picked up her wine. “Who does he think he’s dealing with?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Monday, November 27
8:25 p.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Henrik Metcalfe swung his big BMW across the road and cursed. The rush hour traffic was gone and almost no one was walking around in the cold night. It should have been easy to find a lone walker. Despite doubling back and covering the same ground repeatedly, he’d seen no sign of Hallman.
Spinney’s tip had taken him to Ged’s Place where the barman confirmed that a man, presumably Hallman, had been looking for Gotting. The barman didn’t know where Gotting lived but said some woman had given Hallman an address. The barman hadn’t overheard the address, and the woman was nowhere to be found.
Which reduced Metcalfe to unsuccessfully cruising the neighborhood. He’d approached one or two groups clustered in nearby parking lots, but they claimed not to have seen Gotting or Hallman.
He’d continued the search, but the darkness impeded positive identification. He slowed to illuminate each walker with the BMW’s powerful fog lights. Inevitably, they covered their eyes against the glare, which obscured their faces, too.
He pulled into a drugstore parking lot. He made a few calls seeking Gotting’s address but struck out. The answer from all quarters was that Gotting was a washed-up, drug-and alcohol-addled wreck not worth talking to.
Metcalfe slammed the BMW into gear. He’d do one more circuit of the Burlington area. He rolled out of the parking lot’s exit.
Straight across the street was a rundown liquor store. Metcalfe recalled the store was a drug hangout and only a block from Ged’s Place. Gotting was likely to stick close by to feed his habits. Maybe someone inside would know where Gotting lived.
Metcalfe crossed the near-empty street and parked directly in front of the liquor store’s armored door. There was no glass across the front of the building, just advertising posters stuck to thick plywood boards. The suggestion was that the place had been burglarized in the past, but Metcalfe suspected the point was to prevent cops and junkies from looking through the windows.
He locked his BMW and went inside. The man behind the counter eyed him suspiciously. Metcalfe walked straight to the counter, his empty hands held straight out. He was well known in certain circles. His appearance might ring alarm bells in an area of town where extortion and intimidation were commonplace.
“I’m looking for a guy,” he said.
The cashier put his hand on a telephone. Metcalfe assumed he’d paid the local gang for protection, and one call would bring a couple of heavies.
“I’m not here to cause trouble. Earle Gotting. Thought he might buy from you sometimes.”
He kept his hand on the phone. “Earle ain’t been in today.”
A couple of customers were loading up a cart with beer. They stopped to watch the activity at the counter.
“Does he come in here every day?” Metcalfe asked.
The guy shook his head.
“You got an address?”
He pursed his lips.
Metcal
fe put a fifty-dollar bill on the counter and kept his hand on it. “It’s important.”
The guy glanced at the men loading a cart before pulling a book from under the counter. “Two-two-seven,” he said pointing west. “Palm Tree Court. Few blocks down the street.”
Metcalfe took his hand off the bill. “Thanks.”
The cashier nodded and swept up the money.
Metcalfe found the apartment complex. Palm Tree Court was curiously named, since there wasn’t a single palm tree growing anywhere in Kansas City, as far as he knew. Empty flower beds surrounded dilapidated siding, and trash collected under wooden steps as though the stairs were designed for the purpose.
He checked his gun and took an aluminum baseball bat from under the rear seat. It slotted neatly into an enlarged pocket inside his long coat. The handle protruded enough for a quick grab.
He stepped out of his BMW and checked the area over before locking the vehicle and walking up the steps to Gotting’s place, number 227.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Monday, November 27
8:45 p.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Earle Gotting stared as if he was unable to comprehend that Henrik Metcalfe stood in his apartment living room.
Metcalfe cracked his knuckles. “I don’t believe you.”
Gotting swallowed. “Really. I don’t know.”
Metcalfe had entered his apartment ten minutes earlier.
Metcalfe slammed his fist into Gotting’s stomach.
Gotting doubled over. His stomach churned.
Metcalfe demanded to know why Hallman was looking for him. The answer was simple, but not credible, not when Hallman had said it, and not now when he tried to convince Metcalfe.
He wrenched Gotting upright. The weak muscles in his stomach made him cry out.
“I want to know who, how, and why,” Metcalfe snarled.
Gotting groaned again, rolling his head to one side.
Metcalfe’s big hand gripped him by the neck of his shirt and shook him. “Don’t make me use the bat.”
Metcalfe pulled the bat from under his coat with his free hand and smacked it menacingly against Gotting’s weak leg.
The pain speared through Gotting’s nerves. He squealed before he could get his lungs under control.
Metcalfe lifted the bat above Gotting’s head.
Gotting choked. “I… I… I think I’m going—”
With one hand, Metcalfe threw him backward.
Gotting smacked into the wall. He grunted and slapped his hands over his mouth, gagging.
Metcalfe stepped back.
Gotting stumbled into the bathroom and collapsed over the sink. Metcalfe stood behind him while he wretched.
“His first day out of the slammer and that slimy creep is here, paying you a social call. I don’t buy it,” Metcalfe said.
Gotting splashed his face with water. “I told you. He was looking for a kid.”
“Because you used to kidnap kids and sell them for money to feed your habits?”
Gotting nodded, reluctantly.
“Which kid was he looking for?”
Gotting rinsed his mouth.
If he refused to give the kid’s name, Metcalfe would beat the life out of him. But if he did give Metcalfe the kid’s name, Gotting would make himself a liability, and Metcalfe would get rid of him swiftly.
Gotting wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Just some kid that I took. Thought he was going to make a fortune blackmailing the parents.”
Metcalfe laid the business end of the baseball bat on the sink, in front of Gotting’s face. “And will he?”
Gotting pushed himself upright, leaned against the counter and slipped a small deodorant aerosol can into the palm of his hand. “How? I picked kids from single moms and poor families because they had no money to come after me. I’m not stupid.”
Metcalfe tapped the counter with the bat. “So you say.”
Gotting stared. “He has no hope of getting money out of the trash I stole babies from. Really.”
Metcalfe smashed the bat down on the counter.
The plastic surface splintered into chunks. The shock wave through the plastic of the fixture stung Gotting’s hands. He cringed, cowering away from the bat. The only way to live through Metcalfe’s interrogation was to fight back.
“How many kids did you sell?” Metcalfe demanded.
Gotting shrugged. “I didn’t count.”
Metcalfe slammed the bat down onto the broken counter, splintering off more chunks of plastic. “Tell me!”
“I… I don’t remember. It was years ago. Like…a bunch. Twenty, thirty maybe?” Gotting forced his head down low, close to his shoulders for protection. “I just got paid. Norell handled it.”
“Norell? That slime?” Metcalfe’s scowl morphed into a frown. “One of those kids must be special.”
Gotting shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s a miracle you can think at all.” He dragged the tip of the bat off the counter, sweeping broken plastic onto the floor.
“Yeah,” Gotting nodded.
Metcalfe rolled his shoulders. “Tell me how it worked.”
Gotting nodded and stepped away from Metcalfe. With his finger on the button, he rotated the deodorant in his hand, searching for the front of the aerosol sprayer.
Metcalfe grabbed Gotting’s shirt. He moved the bat behind him for a good solid swing at Gotting’s body. “Tell me.”
Gotting swept the deodorant can up, pressing his finger hard on the plunger. The aerosol jetted out, a solid spray with clouds of microscopic swirling droplets.
The spray hit Metcalfe in the face. He closed his eyes, twisting his face away, and screamed as he lunged with the bat. His swing hit the wall in the tiny room. The impact stole the baseball bat’s momentum.
Gotting gripped the bat and kept the spray going onto Metcalfe’s face.
Metcalfe lunged forward, his eyes still closed and his scream now more of a growl.
Gotting sidestepped into the bathtub, using his hold on the bat to lever Metcalfe face-first into the far wall. Gotting wrenched the bat free, leaped out of the bathroom and slammed the door.
He grabbed his wallet, car keys, and a plastic bag of drugs, and fled his apartment, descending the steps in three bounds. His Audi started on the first try. He raced out of the parking lot.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Monday, November 27
9:00 p.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Hallman slowed his pace. From down the street, headlights glared at him. They had a familiar look. The kind of rings on high-end BMWs.
He put his hand up to shield his eyes. Expensive Beemers weren’t common around Burlington.
His heart rate picked up. He walked slowly and turned right into the kind of seedy alley where a guy could get mugged. Or worse.
Sheltered from the streetlights, he watched the BMW pass by. The driver didn’t look into the alley, but his profile was already seared into Hallman’s visceral memory. Henrik Metcalfe.
Was Metcalfe following him? He should have been more careful. He kicked the ground with his boot. Damn Damn Damn!
He eased to the edge of the alleyway. Every muscle in his body tensed to the quivering point. Metcalfe’s BMW slowed but didn’t stop. At the end of the next block, Metcalfe turned right.
Hallman realized he hadn’t breathed in a while and exhaled to quell the growing fire burning in his limbs.
Metcalfe was searching, scanning the streets. Looking for someone.
Metcalfe wasn’t likely to have clients in this area. No one had any money here. He must have come here for a purpose. To find someone in particular. The safest assumption was that Metcalfe was here for him.
Maybe Max Spinney had talked. Even just a casual mention. A few words to the wrong person. But what had he said? Had Spinney said Hallman was looking for Earle Gotting? Safer to assume he had.
Fire burned in Hallman’s tense muscles again
. What if Gotting already knew Metcalfe? What if they’d worked together? What if Metcalfe was involved with Gotting’s kidnapping scheme?
Blackmailing Kimball had been the only thing on Hallman’s mind for the past six months since he first heard about the chance. He’d put his plan in motion as soon as he left prison. Metcalfe couldn’t stop him. But the risks were growing.
He put his hand in his pocket. The cash his brother had sent was still safe. He could get on a bus, just as his brother had intended. Get out of Kansas City.
But Metcalfe knew about Thomas. He’d find Hallman in Dallas.
And what would he do in Dallas, anyway? He had no marketable skills and even less desire to acquire any. Spend his life under Thomas’s thumb? No, thanks.
He had a plan, and it was a good one. All he needed to do was follow through.
He’d always known he’d need to escape Metcalfe’s claws. But if Snap Metcalfe had partnered with Gotting to kidnap Peter Kimball, the plan had to change.
Hallman had no choice. Moving forward was the only option. But he’d also need to disappear after he got his money. Thoroughly and completely.
Which meant two things.
He needed more money from Kimball than a measly million bucks.
And he needed it fast.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Monday, November 27
9:30 p.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Earle Gotting had sobered up at a truck stop gas station, grabbed a shower, and located clean clothes. He’d tried to remember Hallman from prison, but the memory wasn’t there. Didn’t matter. The snail slime was here now, and he’d be damned if he’d let Hallman steal what was rightfully his.
Twenty minutes later, his Audi looked right at home on the tree-lined roads in the Mission Hills district.
Manicured lawns bordered homes that were glossy magazine perfect. Street lights gave the neighborhood a magical quality against the night sky.