Gone Cold

by Douglas Corleone

  “Dis is some major fuckery, mon,” she said as she dropped onto the sofa. “Why don’t you jus’ step?”

  “Listen, Imogen. I’m not out to get your husband in any trouble. I just need to speak with one of his associates.”

  “He dun have any associates, my usband. He dun work, mon.”

  “All right, one of his friends, then.”

  “He dun have any frens either, ya undastan? He got me. Dat all he need.”

  “Look,” I said, “you’re making this a lot tougher than it needs to be. Let me put this simply. I need to speak with Lennox Sterling.”

  Immediately, Imogen’s expression changed. She shifted in her seat, crossed then uncrossed her legs. Tugged at the collar of her oversized T-shirt. Her eyes went to the door but she kept her head completely still. Finally she drew her legs up onto the sofa, pulled her knees to her chin, and held them there with her arms.

  “I’m no informa,” she said.

  “And I’m no cop.”

  “Then what you want with dat rude bwoy?”

  I’d hit a crossroads. How much do I tell her? Go with the truth or dish out a lie?

  “Does he have a girlfriend?” I asked.

  “Lennox? Why do you care? You fancy him, is dat it? Dat’s what all dis is about, Johnny?”

  I shook my head. “Please, Imogen, just answer the question. Does Lennox Sterling have a girlfriend or not?”

  “’Course he does. Have you evah see him? He be a general, mon.”

  “A general?”

  “One smooth operator, undastan? A genuine Mr. Mention. Hose like a—”

  “All right, stop there,” I said, a palm in the air. “I don’t need anatomical details. I’m only interested in the girl. Tell me about her.”

  “His ooman be a cave bitch. White as man juice, mon. When Lennox linked up with her, I tell him she’s salt, bad luck. He get vexed, tell me I’m jealous. Dat I just want him to eat unda the sheet like he used to.”

  I held up my palm again. “What’s her name?”

  “Her name Shauna. Cave-bitch name.”

  “Relax,” I said.

  Her tone grew angry. “Dun tell me ease up when you come to my crib with a gun and your questions, undastan?”

  “How old is Shauna?” I said.

  “How do I know, mon? You think I split her open and count da rings?”

  “Could she be eighteen, nineteen?”

  “Mos def, mon. Lennox, he likes dem young.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “Dun know where da skettle is. She left this slump few days ago. But Lennox, he know. He always know where his oomen are.”

  “Where can I find Lennox?”

  “Today be Satday. So tonight you find him dropping legs at a bashy in Kenny.”

  “Kenny?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Kensington, mon.”

  “You have an address?”

  “Sure I give you da address, Johnny. But you go dere, you gonna need a whole shitload of tacks.”

  “Tacks?”

  “Bullets, mon. For dat beeg gun of yours.”

  Chapter 38

  Seated across from Ashdown and Zoey in the rear of a small, dark Kensington pub called the Brown Bear, I relayed my conversation with Imogen Rickets back in Toxteth.

  “So where’s this club we’re looking for?” Ashdown said.

  “Not so much a club as a party,” I told him. “More like a rave. In the basement of some old, abandoned church.”

  “Lovely.”

  While I waited for them, I’d done a bit of research on Kensington. Five years ago the area had earned the distinction of becoming Liverpool’s guns-and-murder capital. And it had successfully defended its title against contenders like Anfield, Toxteth, and Birkenhead ever since.

  Our waitress came by and bussed some of our plates. I ordered another espresso.

  “Have you slept at all, Simon?” Ashdown asked.

  I thought about it. Since receiving Kati’s e-mail, I’d spent one night on an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin, one night on the sofa at the Radisson, one night sleeping somewhat fitfully at Gilchrist’s house in Glasgow, and one night traveling to Liverpool on the Dodge Tomahawk.

  Ashdown said, “Gilchrist lent us another Grand Cherokee. After our meal, you can stretch out in the back and catch some shut-eye.”

  I nodded. I liked the idea of catching a few hours before the party kicked off.

  Zoey reached across the table. “You look as though you’ve something on your mind, little brother.”

  I sighed, lifted my eyes to look at her. “Something Angus Quigg mentioned. About Shauna’s so-called father.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, whoever this ‘father’ is, he may well be the son of a bitch who took her twelve years ago.”

  Ashdown frowned. “Quigg described him a bit, didn’t he?”

  “Quigg said he was a businessman. An older businessman. More like a grandfather, he told me. That’s what keeps clawing at me. In my head, I’m trying to dig something up, but I’m not sure what exactly.”

  “Start with the most obvious,” Ashdown said, “Hailey’s biological grandfathers. Your father-in-law, what’s his story?”

  “Crotchety old bastard from Richmond, Virginia. Filthy rich, not a cent of it earned. All old money. Most of it from Big Tobacco.”

  “He was cleared?”

  “Yeah. He was home with my mother-in-law when Hailey was taken. In fact, Tasha was on the phone with her mom when it happened. He was outside arguing with one of his neighbors about landscaping.”

  “And your father was cleared.”

  I nodded. “Anyway, my father hasn’t been back to the United Kingdom in thirty-five years.”

  “How was your dad fit for money at the time?”

  I shrugged. “He’s a doctor. He’s always had plenty.”

  “Plenty? As much as your in-laws?”

  I shook my head. “Nowhere near what my in-laws have. They live in a different stratosphere.” I glanced at him. “What are you thinking?”

  “Just wondering if the FBI truly covered every angle.”

  “For instance?”

  “For instance, they cleared your dad. But what if he’d hired someone? Professionals, I mean.”

  “My father didn’t even want his own children,” I said, staring down at the table.

  I winced as I remembered Zoey was sitting right across from me.

  Ashdown said, “Your father had a mistress, right? Isn’t that what you told me on the drive from Dublin to Glasgow? That he was seeing a married woman down in Raleigh, North Carolina?”

  “So?”

  “So, you’d mentioned that her husband was filthy rich. What if your father was trying to pry her away? But she couldn’t leave behind the lifestyle she’d become accustomed to. What if there was a prenuptial agreement in place? If she left her husband for Alden Fisk, she wouldn’t get a dime. What if your father knew that? What if he needed a way to tap into your in-laws’ money?”

  “There was never any ransom demand.”

  “What if things went awry before a phone call could be made?”

  “If they were professionals,” I said, “they’d still have made the call.”

  “Not necessarily. Your father knew you were a U.S. Marshal, didn’t he? If he hired professionals, they knew you’d demand proof of life before you paid any bloody ransom. What if they couldn’t provide it?”

  “We would have found a body,” I argued. “If not right away, eventually. We combed the woods, dredged the lakes. Volunteers spent days and days digging through landfills in ninety-degree temperatures looking for some sign of her. Nothing was ever found. Not so much as a shoe.”

  Ashdown shook his head. “What I’m saying is, what if she got away? What if she simply escaped?”

  “She was six, Detective. And if she did somehow manage to evade her captors, why didn’t she run to the nearest cop? Her pictures were all over the D.C. area. Someone wo
uld have recognized her. And she was smart. She knew her name. She knew her address and telephone number. She knew to dial nine-one-one in the case of an emergency. She could even read and write at a second-grade level, for Christ’s sake.”

  “What if they’d threatened her, Simon? What if they’d told her they’d kill her parents if she ever tried to escape? What if she kept running in order to keep you and Tasha safe?”

  “Are we still talking about my father?” I shook my head. “He’d have to be pure evil, wouldn’t he?” I looked at Zoey. “He’s rotten but he isn’t that, is he?”

  “You’d know better than I would.”

  “He has a conscience,” I said. “He isn’t a pure sociopath. He couldn’t have lived with that kind of secret. He would have had to tell me. Especially if she had escaped and there was a chance I could find her and bring her home.”

  Ashdown leaned forward. “You said that he begged to meet with you in person right after Hailey went missing.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe he did need to tell you what happened. But he couldn’t do it over the phone. He’d have known the feds were listening in.”

  I thought about it, said, “I suppose he wouldn’t have admitted it to me in person either.”

  “Why not? He’d have suspected you’d turn him in?”

  “No,” I said. “Because he’d have known I would have murdered him.”

  Chapter 39

  Inside the confessional, I could feel the music thumping beneath my sturdy, wooden chair. I took a deep breath and checked my watch under the light of the flame from the platinum Zippo that Zoey somehow filched from Kinny Gilchrist back in Glasgow. I’d been waiting fifteen minutes. Ten more and I’d have to devise another strategy.

  But then my BlackBerry vibrated. A text from Ashdown read:

  Three men, unarmed. Two entering rear of church. One remaining at door.

  I set my BlackBerry down and placed my right hand inside my jacket. Wrapped my fingers around the grip of the .45.

  Moments later a dim light switched on, revealing a dark wooden lattice directly in front of me. On the opposite side of the lattice was a small sliding window, which opened seconds after the door to the adjoining compartment opened and closed.

  Through the lattice I could see only a large shadowy form. A pungent blend of smoke and sweat instantly filled the entire space.

  The male voice on the other side of the lattice intoned, “In da name of da Father, and of da Son, and of da Holy Spirit.” He possessed an accent more British than Jamaican. “What can I do for you, son?”

  I tipped my head forward. “I’m in need of salvation, Father.”

  “Aren’t we all?” he said softly. “Imogen tells me you are also in search of peace. Or shall we say a piece?”

  “That’s right, Father.”

  “Well, you have come to da right place.”

  Slowly, he enumerated my firearms options. A Walther P99. A SIG Sauer P226. A Heckler & Koch MP5SF. A Browning 9 mm.

  My BlackBerry lit up without sound.

  Immediately the voice on the other side of the lattice turned angry. “You were told no electronic devices.”

  I quickly scanned Ashdown’s text:

  Both men neutralized. Outside: Jomo Newell. Inside: Kordell Rickets.

  A second text immediately followed:

  Confessional: Lennox Sterling confirmed.

  “Sorry, Father,” I said. “It was just a text.”

  “Turn it off,” he insisted.

  “I’d prefer not to, Father.”

  He stood, turned toward the door.

  I said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Although I couldn’t see him clearly, I estimated he stood at least six four, maybe six five. A virtual giant.

  I said, “I have an HK .45 pointed at you. You open that door, I’m going to fire. Maybe I hit you. Maybe I miss. But from what I can make out, you’re a fairly large target. And I’m a damn good shot.” I paused. “So have a seat, Father. Please.”

  After some consideration, he sat. Said, “You will be gunned down da second you pull dat trigger, mon.”

  “No, I won’t, Lennox. See, your mate Kordell Rickets is no longer standing outside this confessional. And your other friend Jomo Newell is no longer outside guarding the rear entrance to this church.”

  Several seconds passed in silence. Then: “What have you done, mon?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “They’re fine. I have no intention of hurting you or them unless I have to. So how things go from here is pretty much up to you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just information.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name doesn’t matter,” I said. “All you need to know is that I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator from the States. I accept only one kind of case. I search for missing and abducted children.”

  Sterling had calmed. “I have no children, mon. Abducted or otherwise. So what do you want with me?”

  “Tell me about Shauna Adair.”

  “Shauna?” he said testily. “She is my girl, mon. Why are you asking me about Shauna?”

  “What was she doing in Dublin?”

  “I dun know. She wouldn’t tell me. But it was something to do with her father, I think. He is one son of a bitch, he is.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “She never told me his name. She calls him Daddy, I call him da son of a bitch.”

  “Why is he a son of a bitch?”

  “Why do you think? He’s a racist, mon. A coward.”

  “Why do you think he’s a racist? Because he doesn’t like you?”

  “Because he didn’t like me before he met me. He told her, ‘You go out with one of dem neggas, we done.’”

  I processed this, said, “So she chose you over him. But if Shauna’s relationship with her father is done, why would she have gone to Dublin for him?”

  “Like I said before, I dun know, mon. But my guess is, he got himself into some kind of trouble again. It’s all he’s good for, her old man. And no matter what, every time he calls, Shauna goes running.”

  “What kind of trouble does he get himself into?”

  “Trouble with the filth. Trouble with his competition. Trouble with his own mates, even.”

  “What kind of competition?”

  “Drugs, innit? He sells drugs. And not just ganja. All kinds. Even da hard stuff.”

  “Where does he sell these drugs?”

  “He’s based out of London, mon. But Shauna says he has legit businesses all over da UK and Ireland.”

  “In Liverpool?”

  “Not Liverpool, but Manchester.”

  “What kind of legit businesses does he run?”

  “Shauna never told me. She doesn’t like talking about her old man, and I can’t blame her.”

  “But you’ve met him?”

  “Once. And, believe me, once was enough.”

  “Where is Shauna now?” I asked.

  “I dun know, mon. She hasn’t called me since she left six or seven days ago.”

  I cursed inwardly. “You live together, right?”

  “That’s right, mon. I love her. I love her like the sun.”

  “Poetic,” I said. “So when she returns to Liverpool, she’ll return to your place.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You hope so? Where else would she go?”

  “A drugs den, maybe. She’s hooked, thanks to her old man.”

  “Hooked on what?”

  “Skag, mon. Brown. Gear. Horse. Smack. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “And she can’t get heroin at home?”

  “I don’t allow that shite in my house, mon. I am clean. I only smoke ganja, have an occasional drink to celebrate.”

  I changed course. “How old is she, Lennox?”

  “She says she’s twenty-three.”

  “What do you mean, ‘She says she’s twenty-three?’”

  “I
mean, I asked her once da year of her birth, and it took her counting on her fingers to answer me.”

  I thought about what Quigg said when I asked him if Shauna could possibly be eighteen. “She’d have to be an auld soul, I think.”

  “What else do you know about her past?”

  “Nothing, mon. Only what she tells me. She says she grew up in London, says that’s all I need to know.”

  “She returns there? To London, I mean.”

  “Only once in a while.”

  “Where in London?”

  “I have no idea, mon. She tells me nothing about London. But when she comes back to Liverpool, she’s sometimes carrying matches for a pub in da East End.”

  “What’s the name of this pub?”

  “Da name of da pub is Night’s End, innit?”

  “Do you know if she has any contacts in London?”

  “Besides her old man? None dat I know of.”

  “How about here? Does she have any friends in Liverpool?”

  “She’s got only me, mon. My mates are her mates.”

  I rose from my chair. “I want you to take your ID and slide it under the door. Nice and slowly.”

  He did as he was told.

  “One more question,” I said. “Why would a private investigator have followed Shauna up to Dublin?”

  He chuckled benignly. “You said before you’re a private investigator, right? So why don’t you tell me?”

  Chapter 40

  TWELVE YEARS AGO

  At midnight, I labor down the stairs and find Tasha seated alone at the kitchen table, staring down at the phone.

  “Another prank?” I ask.

  She nods but says nothing.

  I go to the fridge, sit across from her with a cold bottle of Dasani in my hand. I’m not even thirsty. These past few weeks I’ve found myself walking around with bottles of water and soda, mugs of coffee, cups of tea without ever putting my lips to them. They’re just props, there to occupy my hands so that I don’t find myself biting my nails or picking at the skin around my thumbs.

  “It’s difficult to get used to the quiet,” I say.

  Tasha’s expression doesn’t change. She’s been worse these past couple of days as more and more feds are taken off the case, sent out on other assignments. There’s a political scandal in Washington and it’s been filling the front pages, replacing Hailey’s story inch by inch by precious inch.