Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

  The houses became modern suburban structures, one-and two-story dwellings with what salespeople liked to call architectural features.

  He stopped beside a tree and pulled a street map of Kansas City from his pocket. It was a tattered book that he’d stolen from Convenient 4U.

  Using the index, he found Norell’s address, eight blocks away.

  Fifteen minutes later, he stepped onto Norell’s street. Trees lined either side of the road. Most of the cars were parked in the residents’ garages or driveways.

  A black BMW SUV was parked a few houses down and on the opposite side of the street. The streetlights illuminated an outline of the driver.

  He couldn’t see the driver’s face, but he recognized the vehicle. Metcalfe.

  Hallman knelt on his haunches behind a tree. He was forced to admit that his plan was seriously at risk.

  Metcalfe had been hanging around Gotting’s, and now he had Norell’s place staked out. Spinney was the most likely snitch.

  If Metcalfe had directed a few threats at Gotting, he’d have crumbled in a heartbeat. Which meant Metcalfe must know about Kimball.

  But why was Metcalfe waiting outside? Why not inside, working Norell over with his baseball bat?

  Or had he already been inside?

  No. That made no sense. If Norell had told Metcalfe where to find the boy, Metcalfe would be gone already. No reason to delay and the last place Metcalfe would wait was outside a dead man’s house if he’d already killed Norell.

  Which meant something else was going on here.

  A car drove by. Hallman shuffled down lower. The headlights illuminated Metcalfe’s SUV and the driver still waiting.

  The only option that made sense was that Metcalfe was waiting for him.

  His business with Norell could wait. Hallman started down the street, walking slowly and using the line of trees to hide from Metcalfe. He turned left at the end of the street, risking a glance back. The SUV was still in the same spot. Waiting.

  He walked two miles back into town, re-tracing his earlier path until he came upon a dilapidated industrial building. A side door gave easily when he pushed it with his boot, and a few minutes later he was huddled in a moth-eaten office chair, snoring.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Tuesday, November 28

  2:45 a.m.

  Near Colorado Springs, Colorado

  The hotel room was cold, damp, and dark. Gotting sat on the bed. The air stank. It was a familiar smell. Beer and earth. Stale and decaying. Decades of filth, but probably nothing life-threatening was growing in the carpet.

  He’d never counted the number of babies he’d placed on the floor overnight. They’d all survived. At least long enough for him to get paid. And who cared after that?

  The room suited his purposes then and suited him now. Then he’d been traveling to Kansas City, now he was leaving. Then he’d had a drugged-up baby in tow. Now, he was the drugged-up baby. He grinned.

  His muscles ached from tension. He’d driven for six straight hours until he reached a rundown motel ten miles off I-70. He was tired, but uppers had kept him going through the night.

  He grunted. No, the uppers hadn’t kept him going. The kid had kept him going. The kid was his. Whatever and however there was money to be made, it was his money. He’d always done the dirty work while everyone else got rich. But not this time.

  He looked up Jessica Kimball on his burner phone. She was still looking for her kid, which was good. He scoffed at the fifty grand she was offering for information. A puny number like that didn’t hold his attention any more than it did for Hallman or Metcalfe.

  Gotting put Carter Pierce’s name into a search engine. There were thousands of hits, among them was a list of Pierce’s good deeds. Money to charities. Coverage in his magazine for worthy causes. On the board of a few nonprofits.

  Gotting scrolled down the page and sneered. Hell, the man was an all-round do-gooder. One cause after another. Even his secretary. She’d gushed to a tabloid about how he’d helped with outsized medical bills that would have bankrupted her.

  But what about Kimball? She was the top reporter for his magazine, sure. Would Pierce help her to the tune of a few million? That was a big leap from paying his secretary’s medical bills. Gotting scrolled back to the charitable donations. A few of them were in the millions.

  The alarm clock said 4:30 a.m. He had another couple of hours’ drive to reach Colorado Springs. He could grab the kid. If he got there before Metcalfe and Hallman, he could sort out the blackmail later. He knew somewhere he could keep the kid. A boy would be no problem. He had a bag of drugs in his car sufficient to sedate a horse for weeks.

  He turned his phone off. It was hard to predict people. You couldn’t know what they would do just by asking them stupid questions. People said all kinds of things. Most of it was bullshit.

  No, you had to face them with the problem. Stick the issue right in front of their noses.

  First things first. Grab the kid.

  Then Pierce and Kimball had to decide.

  Was Peter Kimball’s life worth a few million dollars or not?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Tuesday, November 28

  3:05 a.m.

  Denver, Colorado

  Jess met Morris at the airport. He took her gun case and went off to complete the paperwork necessary to transport it to their destination.

  She checked them in for the flight, but their last-minute plans meant there were no seats together. He made it to the gate during the final boarding call.

  She handed him his boarding pass, and they hurried to their seats. She was in row twelve and he was in the very back at twenty-nine. They were both stuck in the middle seat. The confined space wasn’t a problem for her, but Morris was folded up like origami paper.

  There wasn’t enough room to lay her laptop on the tray table, but if she tilted it at forty-five degrees she could use the keyboard and still see the screen.

  In an email, she gave Stephenson the details of the second phone call and told him she would contact him after she landed.

  An hour into the flight, Morris came by and beckoned her to the galley at the back of the plane. He showed his badge to the flight attendant and requested a few moments of privacy. The attendants gathered up snacks and drinks onto a cart and left.

  “Got a message from KCPD. They reviewed the CCTV from the convenience store. It’s poor quality, and the suspect kept his face away from the camera. He stood outside the door for a few moments before entering. They think he was scoping out the camera location.”

  “Nothing useful at all?”

  “He’s wearing a coat and hat. No surprise given the cold. You can see for yourself.” Morris held out his phone.

  Jess watched a grainy video. The camera was high up in the corner of the store. No sound.

  Three employees were all seated when the front door swung open and the suspect stepped inside.

  The workers turned as one to watch the customer. He waved his hand and went straight for the pay phone, turned his back and made the call. The camera was fixed, and the phone was on the edge of its field of view.

  Jess timed him. From her recollection, the length of time he’d spent on the phone seemed to match the call she’d received.

  The suspect seemed to be looking around the store. One of the workers at the counter appeared to speak to him.

  Keeping his back to the camera, he marched up and down the aisles, stopping twice before leaving.

  Jess frowned. “Why didn’t he just run. Why take your time like that?”

  “Wanted to avoid looking suspicious?” Morris said.

  “Maybe, but…” Jess rewound the video and watched the man leave the store again. “What was he going to buy?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself,” Morris said. He scrubbed the video back and forth examining the store’s fixed posts near him when the man stood still.

  Jess leaned closer to the screen. The man was at an angle to
the camera, facing the opposite direction. “His coat moved,” she said, pointing.

  Morris peered at the images and nodded. “He could be stealing something.”

  Jess advanced the video until the man left the store. The shelves where he had been standing were in view, but the camera’s resolution wasn’t good enough to identify anything he might have stolen.

  Morris typed a message on his phone. “I’ll have KCPD find out what was on those shelves. Whatever it was had to be pretty important for him to stand around, knowing squad cars would be racing toward him.”

  “He’s very sure of himself.”

  “Cool and calculating.”

  Jess grimaced. “Or ruthless and heavily armed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, November 28

  8:05 a.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  The flight landed in Kansas City on time. Jess carried her bag off the aircraft and waited for Morris.

  Her phone connected to the cell service and played a chorus of chimes as it received a long string of messages. She spotted Stephenson’s name immediately.

  She dialed his number and he picked up on the first ring.

  “You’ve received two calls from him, Jess?”

  “Right. The FBI has traced both. Two different public phones. Both in Kansas City.”

  “Any reason to believe he’s not some crank? Or a guy looking to make a quick buck?”

  “He mentioned my T-shirt.”

  Stephenson whistled. “First time we’ve heard that from a tipster. You brought the FBI in?”

  “They’ve been monitoring my calls.”

  “Good. I’ve emailed you a list of possibles identified back at the time of the original kidnapping who now live in Kansas and Missouri. Not all suspects at the time. Some were witnesses with opportunity that the locals talked to at the time. A total of eight. Three of those eight live in Kansas City. All three have criminal records and have served prison time since Peter was taken.”

  “All three?” Jess gulped. “That’s, I don’t know, disturbing I guess is the only way I can think of to put it.”

  “It is. Maybe worse than disturbing.” Stephenson seemed to be reading from a list. “One convicted of arson, one for drugs, and one for drugs followed by possession of a firearm.”

  Jess didn’t reply.

  “The last guy got five years, which was the maximum for an unlicensed gun.”

  “Seems excessive, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. Which means there’s more to that story.”

  “All males?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Any of these three guys still in prison now?”

  “You’re not that lucky,” Stephenson grunted. “The last one released was the guy with the gun. Name’s Earle Gotting. Cut loose six months ago.”

  “We can’t narrow the list further?”

  “Not long distance like this. But I can be there in a few hours.”

  “I might take you up on that. For now, I have Morris with me.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll keep digging from here. If I find anything, I’ll call you. Stay safe, Jess,” Stephenson said before he rang off.

  Jess tapped the phone against her lips thoughtfully as she watched Morris exit the jet-bridge and emerge into the terminal.

  “Guess what,” Morris said as he approached. “The guy stole a Kansas City street map. The Convenient 4U store owner thinks it was an old one. Been on the shelves for ages, he said.”

  “So, he’s not local to Kansas City.”

  “Or he doesn’t have a phone to search internet maps.” Morris grinned. They walked toward ground transportation. “And before you ask me, I have no idea why he didn’t just buy a burner except he might be low on cash. Burners have to be activated at the time of purchase with cash or a credit card. Stolen ones don’t work.”

  “Regardless of why he stole it, he wanted a local map. Which must mean he’s trying to find a specific place or places around here.” She frowned and held up her own phone. “I have a list of specific places he might be going.”

  She filled him in on Stephenson’s email on the way to the rental car counter. The list of possibles included last known addresses. Minutes later, they pulled out of the airport parking lot in a dark green Ford Edge heading for the first person on Stephenson’s list who might have remembered her Rolling Stones T-shirt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, November 28

  8:15 a.m.

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Gotting looked at himself in the Audi’s rearview mirror, smoothed his hair, and stepped out of the car. His right leg was numb from sitting, and the car’s heated seats hadn’t improved his backache.

  He’d reached Peter Kimball’s home an hour earlier. He watched until the mother took the boy to school. Curiously, she dropped him a few blocks away and he walked the last distance. She was well dressed, probably the sort of person who worked in an office, maybe a professional of some sort.

  Gotting parked quickly to follow on foot.

  The boy didn’t talk to anyone. He wore a dark blue coat and carried a backpack and worked his way through the streets, passing a couple of buildings then crossing a park to the rear entrance to Westfield High School.

  Gotting watched as the boy met a couple of friends at the gate and walked inside.

  Earle walked back to his car.

  The park was wide open, a single path across a grassy area dotted with trees. There was a monument in the middle, but it provided no cover.

  The buildings had people inside, but they were industrial structures with lots of walls and very few windows. The parking areas were filled with cars, but the people were already at work.

  Wind blew the warmth away from his body. His jacket had been heavy enough in Kansas City, but it was insufficient protection in Colorado’s early winter-like weather. He’d passed a ski and snowboard shop a few miles back where he could buy a parka, but the less contact he had with people, the better. He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched into the coat already on his back.

  He reached his car and looked back at the buildings. The parking lots were still devoid of human life. Mornings were not good times for kidnapping, but there were fewer witnesses to worry about. People didn’t hang around in the cold and stuck to their routines. Especially school kids.

  He put his car in gear. He’d come back tomorrow morning after he set up the rest of his plan.

  For the second time, he planned to abduct Peter Kimball.

  But this time, the money would be all his.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Tuesday, November 28

  9:30 a.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Jess crossed off the first two suspects on Stephenson’s list. Morris used an FBI database to trace the first one to Florida, the other was whereabouts unknown, Morris said.

  Fine rain streaked the windshield and lights glistened off the wet streets as Jess drove to the third address. Earle Gotting’s apartment.

  The apartment complex was a series of old brown three-story buildings, all of which had seen better days. Cars were propped up on bricks in the parking lots except for an occasional Cadillac or BMW that probably belonged to the local drug dealers.

  She parked facing Gotting’s place, apartment 227. Faint light showed around the edges of closed drapes. The wooden steps to the second floor creaked as she followed Morris upstairs.

  The door to apartment 227 had also seen better days. The bottom half had been repaired with unpainted plywood.

  This place was a dump. Already Jess could easily believe Gotting was the one extorting money from her. If she lived here, she might be desperate enough to resort to blackmail, too.

  Morris checked around the side of the apartment. “There’s a fire escape. A second exit. I’ll keep watch.”

  She rang the doorbell. There was no sound from the bell, so she knocked.

  A minute later, Morris returned an
d knocked harder.

  She went to the edge of the landing and looked over the parking lot. She saw nothing moving. It was still early. Maybe everyone was asleep.

  Morris knocked one more time with no result. “I don’t have a warrant. We can’t go inside.”

  “There was a leasing office sign on a door near the front,” Jess said. Morris nodded and followed her down the stairs.

  The leasing office was a converted apartment on the ground floor with a sign over the door. The sign said the office didn’t open for another hour, but the lights were on. Jess knocked.

  A middle-aged woman peered from behind the blinds. Morris held out his badge. The woman studied it for a few moments before opening the door.

  The office was in the apartment’s living area, the kitchen off to the right, a pot of coffee on the counter.

  The woman stood in front of a desk with a sign that said: “Ask Pam.”

  Jess raised her eyebrows. “Pam?”

  The woman held her hand out. “McGinty. Leasing Executive.”

  Jess and Morris shook her hand and identified themselves.

  “We’re looking for Earle Gotting,” Jess said.

  McGinty leaned forward. “Is he in trouble?”

  “We just want to talk to him.”

  She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “That’s how it always starts.”

  “We tried his apartment. He didn’t answer the door.”

  “Probably sleeping. He lost his job a few weeks ago.”

  Alarm bells went off in Jess’s head. Serious money problems often pushed people to do things they would not normally do. Blackmail, for example. “Does he still make the rent?”

  She said, “Seems to.”

  Jess nodded.

  Morris held out his badge. “I wonder if you could just check. We really need to talk to him.”