Web of Justice

by J J Miller

  “About ninety minutes ago.”

  “Has she called?”

  “She didn’t take her phone.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on Abbot Kinney. I’ve been walking up and down the street looking for her.”

  “Have you called the cops?”

  “Of course, but there’s no urgency from them. They figure Bella’s most likely just strayed and will return without incident. But this isn’t like her at all. She wouldn’t just run off.”

  Just then, my phone pinged with a message. I pulled it from my ear to check who it was from.

  “Hang on, I just got a message,” said Claire.

  “So did I,” I told her.

  The number was withheld.

  “Who’s yours from?” she said.

  “I don’t know. It’s private.”

  Suddenly dreading what I would find. I tapped on the message. That’s when I heard Claire scream.

  “Oh my God!! Oh my God!! Bella!! Bella!! No!” She was screaming hysterically.

  I was muttering the same thing to myself. I was dazed. Shocked. The image I saw made we want to rip my insides out. My body went cold and feverish.

  It was a photo of Bella. She was seated in a car, unconscious, with tape over her mouth and her arms bound at the wrists.

  “CALL THE COPS OFF NOW OR I’LL SLIT HER THROAT!”

  28

  I don’t know how long it took before I was able to resume a coherent conversation with Claire. Once my head began clearing, I wanted answers. But nothing she could give me was enough.

  “Claire. Claire!”

  “Yes?” she moaned.

  “You need to tell me exactly what happened. Every detail that you know.”

  She muttered to herself, breathing deeply, trying to haul her mind back from the depths of horror and fear. Finally, she began to get some words out.

  “Like I said. She was with Caitlin.”

  “Where?”

  “Caitlin had to return some product to three stores on Abbot Kinney. We’d just finished a photo shoot and there were clothes, handbags, and other stuff to return. The stylist was in a rush, so Caitlin offered to take the items back for her. I was busy tying up loose ends, and Bella asked if she should could go.”

  “How old is Caitlin?”

  “Eighteen. She minds Bella all the time, Brad. You know that.”

  “I don’t know that. How could I? I know next to nothing about this Caitlin girl other than the fact that she’s your minion. So I won’t pretend I’m reassured by her taking responsibility for the care of our seven-year-old daughter.”

  “You never said anything before.”

  I breathed in deeply. Anger shot through me with a violent pulse. It was all I could do to stop myself from exploding verbally. About the only thing that kept me in check was the fact that some part of me was aware of my need for payback. I hadn’t forgotten her reaction to what I did at the VidCon shooting. I could feel all that indignation in my emotional mix. But it would be a cheap shot to unload on her.

  “What would it have mattered if I had said so, Claire? Seriously. Let’s move on. What time did they leave?”

  “It was about ten-thirty. They were only going to be a half hour or so, then Bella was due to have a play date with her friend Zoe. Oh, God. I have to call Jennifer.”

  “Jennifer?”

  “Zoe’s mom.”

  “That can wait. Back to Caitlin and Bella. So they head up to Abbot Kinney.”

  “Yes, yes. Caitlin said she parked behind MTN, that Japanese restaurant, fed the meter and took the goods to the stores. Bella helped her carry some of them in. She went to three shops, returned the items, and then Caitlin decided she wanted to slip into Sota to try on a dress...”

  “Don’t say it like you’re excusing her!”

  “I’m not! She thought she would only be ten minutes and that it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Jesus Christ, that little...”

  “Brad. She’s beside herself. Can you imagine?”

  “Right now I don’t really care how she feels. She feels dreadful? Good. I hope it’s eating her alive.”

  “It’s eating me alive! Anyway, I sent her home. She needs to be with her parents right now.”

  “Yeah, well she has that luxury, doesn’t she?” I was on my feet, running my hand over my head, trying to think through a thousand things at once. How could this have happened? Who would do this? Why would they take Bella? Was it because of me? What do they want?

  I tried to stay rational and calm, but it was taking a supreme amount of physical, emotional and mental effort.

  “Go on. What happened next?”

  “She said there were only two other people in Sota besides her and Bella—the manager and an assistant. The assistant took her to the changing room while Bella waited. Caitlin said she left Bella looking at some clothes displayed on the floor. She said the manager told the assistant she was heading out back to the store room, letting her know she had the run of the place. Caitlin said she was in the changing room for five to ten minutes.”

  “Five to ten minutes? Why so long?”

  “She took in three dresses. She tried the first two on and didn’t like them then tried on the third. That’s when she stepped out of the fitting room and couldn’t see Bella anywhere.”

  “She just disappeared? Just like that? Bella would not have just wandered off by herself.”

  “Caitlin said she searched the store and then began to panic. The assistant saw nothing, heard nothing. But Caitlin said when she came out of the fitting room the assistant was tucked away in the back corner of the store checking her phone.”

  “Right.”

  There was a pause of a few seconds that only invited the dread consuming us to grow more potent.

  “Brad, what are we going to do?”

  “Well, we don’t know where this person is. He, I’m assuming it’s a he, told us to call off the cops. Can you do that? Then you’d best head back home. I don’t know if he’s just buying himself time or whether he is actually still in the area. Either way, we can’t risk it. We need to be seen as cooperating with everything he demands.”

  “I’ll tell the cops we found her.”

  “I know that will be hard but, yes, I think that’s what we have to do. I’ll see you soon. I’m coming over.”

  “Brad, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said, even though I felt it was all her fault. “We’ll get her back.”

  “How?”

  “That’s what I’m working on.” I hung up and immediately called Jack.

  “What’s cooking, boss?” Jack answered.

  “Jack, it’s an emergency. I need you over at Claire’s place right now. And tell Charlie to get there too. Tell her she’s on the clock as of now.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Someone’s kidnapped Bella,” I seethed. “And we are going to hunt that son-of-a-bitch down.”

  ✽✽✽

  Claire didn’t notice me as I crossed the lawn and came into her house. She was seated at the kitchenette bench at the far end of ground floor. She looked crushed, her eyes heavy and reddened by tears drawn from the depths of her soul. Hearing my footsteps cross the polished concrete, she lifted her head and got to her feet listlessly. We hugged. She put her head against my chest. I rubbed her back slowly.

  “We will find her, Claire. I promise.”

  “How?” she said, forlorn. “She could be anywhere.”

  I knew she hadn’t given up hope, even though the most natural thing in some sense was to abandon hope. Someone had our daughter somewhere, and they meant to do her harm. Right at this point in time, we were utterly powerless. The rage within me sought to hurtle me in all manner of directions. But it also felt like a hollow, aimless power—like punching the headstone of someone you yearned to hold warm in your arms again. And yes, every ghastly thought had crossed my mind—even the prospect that Bella might
already be dead.

  “We’ll find a way.”

  Just then the doorbell buzzed. Claire and I released each other.

  “That’ll be Jack. I asked him to come.”

  “What if we’re being watched?”

  “For all they’d know a friend’s come to visit. We need all the help we can get.”

  Claire nodded.

  “I’ll let him in,” I said.

  Upon seeing Claire, Jack wrapped her in a big hug, then held her back at arms’ length with two hands. He tilted his head to make sure he caught her eye.

  “Right now, we have a little time,” he said. “This has only just begun. As horrible as that sounds, it also means there’s hope. She is still alive. Whoever it is that has Bella, they will be sending us another message soon. They must want something.”

  “You mean a ransom?”

  “Maybe,” Jack said.

  “Why? Why would they do this? Why would we be extortion targets? We’re not rolling in money. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “God only knows.”

  Claire suddenly realized there was another person in the room. She stepped aside from Jack and looked at Charlie. The young hacker was wearing straight-legged jeans covered in holes. Her skinny legs were—as usual, I figured—planted in Doc Martin boots. And with her spiky hair, various face piercings and white tank top without a bra, Claire must have been wondering if some aimless Venice waif had followed Jack in off the street.

  “Claire,” I said. “This is Charlie. She’s part of the team that’s going to help us find Bella.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Charlie is a hacker,” I continued. “One of the best. Without the cops to help, it’s just us against that asshole. And if we want to track him down without him knowing, Charlie here could well be the key.”

  Charlie didn’t bother saying hello, nor did Claire for that matter. They just stared at each other.

  “Who said it’s a he?” said Charlie.

  I shook my head. We were running on the assumption that it must be a man.

  “You’re right,” I said. “We have no idea who’s behind this. We don’t know if it’s a man or a woman. We don’t know if it’s an individual or a gang.”

  As I said these words, my mind began to run through potential suspects. Could this be the work of the Sintown Crips? Was this payback for failing to get Demarco off the murder charge? Ramon X has my number. It would not have been hard to have me followed and discover I had a young daughter who could be used as an easy target, a pawn in a brutal payback scheme. But would they do something like this? Would they get their revenge this way? Wouldn’t they come straight for me if they thought I had to pay for my failure? My brain was swirling; my sense of reason an aimless mess.

  Suddenly my phoned pinged. Claire’s did too. She picked hers up off the bench top. Then she looked at me.

  “I don’t want to look,” she said. “Brad?”

  Everyone was looking at me. I pulled my phone out and read the message.

  It was another image of Bella—gagged, eyes open, looking utterly terrified. I felt the blood drain from my face. All the air was sucked from my lungs. I could barely breathe. As much as I steeled myself to try and conceal the intensity of my distress, I couldn’t.

  Claire’s hands went to her mouth. She briefly lifted them away to speak.

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s another photo of Bella. She’s alive,” I said. That was one way to put a positive spin on it.

  “God help us, Brad. What is it?” said Claire.

  I could feel my lips trembling. I opened my mouth slowly. Then read the words as though they were being forced out of me.

  “It says, ‘Instagram this mommy and daddy’.” I didn’t tell them the words were followed by a string of emojis—the ones crying with laughter.

  I handed the phone to Jack. Claire could no longer resist the urge to see Bella. But as soon as she saw the phone, she let out a moan of despair. It was the most heartbreaking sound I’d ever heard, the soul-deep cry of mother’s anguish.

  But my sympathy for Claire at that moment was short-lived. The reins that had held my anger in check suddenly fell away as it dawned on me what this was all about. I could no longer bear to stay silent, to stay neutral, to pretend like this was some kind of freak accident that we—no, Claire—had nothing to do with.

  “This has to be about Bella’s Instagram account,” I said, glaring at Claire.

  “We don’t know that, Brad,” said Jack trying to intervene in what he saw coming.

  “What else would it be?!” I shouted. “Some twisted son-of-a-bitch has found our seven-year-old daughter on Instagram. Our little girl posing this way and that for all the world to see.” I was walking slowly towards Claire as I spoke, my words rising in volume. “What did I tell you, Claire?! How many times did I tell you it was not right to make our child a public figure with this social media bullshit? But oh no, Brad. You don’t understand. It’s good for her. She loves it. It’s no more dangerous than walking the street! Isn’t that what you said?!”

  “Brad, I told you I had control of...”

  “You had control of nothing except the money you made off her! You only cared about the increase in sales she generated for you. This was never about her. It was about you and your bullshit, your shallow fashion, your vanity and your greed. You lapped it up. And what did I say? What did I say about there being sickos out there? I warned you that there could be consequences. But what was my opinion worth? What was my concern worth? Nothing!”

  Claire was rendered speechless by my verbal assault. I wasn’t done.

  “How many perverts were tuned into our daughter’s life? Creeps that you allowed in. Well, Claire. This is the consequence. Some sick maniac has our daughter, and God only knows what he’s doing to her right now.”

  Jack stepped in between me and Claire, who was in tears.

  “You bastard! Shut your mouth!” she screamed.

  Jack grabbed both my shoulders as he stood in front of me.

  “Brad. Brad. You need to calm down. We still know jack shit about who’s behind this. We don’t know why they’ve taken Bella. I know you’re pissed, but this ain’t right, buddy. What we need to do right now is strip out the emotions and get our minds on the job. What can we do to get your daughter back?”

  As my rage subsided, I couldn’t get an image out of my mind: the man with the dog at Santa Monica. I tried hard to remember details about him. His facial appearance. His clothes. His dog. It was all too vague. Then I remembered—he’d taken a selfie.

  “The guy from Santa Monica! Jack, my phone,” I said. As soon as it was in my hands, I tapped through to Instagram and began scrolling down the photos in Bella’s account.

  “What are you doing?”

  “There was a guy who approached Bella when I’d gone to buy ice cream. He took a selfie with her. Here he is!”

  Jack came beside me to check out the pic.

  “Steve Bartis,” Jack said before reading the comment Bartis had posted. “‘Love you, Bella Madison. Microfashion’s It Girl!’ Go to his page.”

  When I tapped through, it was clear Bartis was a very active user. He had almost two-hundred thousand followers. I Googled his name and up came a link to his website.

  “Looks like he’s a personal trainer to the stars,” I said.

  “And he sure as hell doesn’t look like someone who’s going to kidnap a seven-year-old girl,” said Jack.

  That wasn’t going to deter me. I found the number and called it. I didn’t even know what I was going to say. As the phone rang, I felt a growing sense that what I was doing was absurd.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, is that Steve Bartis?”

  “Yes, it is, how can I help?”

  The voice was friendly and a little out of breath. I could hear he was outdoors. He must have been in the middle of a jog or something. Seeing an unknown number, he probably expected a potential new c
lient to be on the end of the line. I knew then and there that I was way, way off. What was I actually going to say to him? “Remember me? I’m the angry dad from the beach. My daughter Bella’s missing, and my bet is you’re the sick bastard who’s taken her!” Thankfully, I thought the better of it.

  “Look, I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I’ve got to go.”

  I hung up feeling stupid and useless.

  “What was the name of the store?” The sound of Charlie’s voice cutting through the silence surprised me. I’d become oblivious to her presence. She’d taken a seat on the sofa and had placed her laptop on the coffee table. She was busy typing as she spoke. No one replied to her.

  “What’s the name of the goddamn store!?”

  “Sota,” Claire said, her defeated voice rising just above a whisper. “S-O-T-A.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked Charlie.

  “What no one else seems to be doing—trying to find your daughter. Does she have a phone?”

  “Yes,” said Claire. “But she left it here.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Charlie. “Her phone would be traceable.”

  Dejected again—it was like being punched hard in the face.

  Charlie turned back to her laptop and resumed typing. “Give me your phone,” she said. I assumed she meant me. I walked over to her.

  “The kidnapper’s number’s blocked, in case you were thinking about tracing it.”

  “I am thinking about tracing it. Give me your phone.”

  “You can trace a blocked number?”

  “I can.”

  “I thought that was impossible.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  She took my phone and held it in one hand while working the keyboard with the other. After two minutes she handed it back to me.

  “Now yours, please,” Charlie said to Claire.

  Claire walked over and gave up her phone. A few minutes later Charlie was done.

  “I’ve installed a trap on both your phones. Essentially, the call system has now been rerouted so that when the next message arrives, the ID blocker that the kidnapper is using will be rendered ineffective, and we’ll be able to see the number.”

  “And then you can trace it?” I asked.