Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  PUMP FAKE

  By

  Michael Beck

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-171-4

  Pump Fake

  Copyright © 2013 by Michael Beck

  Cover design

  Copyright © 2013 by Judith B. Glad

  Ice photo: © Argus12 | Dreamstime.com

  Blood photo © mizina - Fotolia.com

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  For Jordan, Corey, Shayannah, Indiana, Jet, Jaguar and Phoenix.

  Pump Fake: a simulated action whereby a quarterback fakes a pass, drawing the opposition out of position, before completing a pass to a receiver.

  CHAPTER 1

  June 2011

  Anna Gilliam was thirteen years old, had long blonde hair, loved chocolate chip ice cream and disappeared eighty yards from home on a sunny, New York summer's day.

  Her mom had sent Anna and her fifteen-year-old sister, Nicole, off to the local corner store in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to buy ice cream as a treat. The shop was only a block away, but that was all it took.

  As they normally did, Anna and Nicole took their Rottweiler, Sheba, with them. They were laughing as Sheba, who weighed one hundred and thirty pounds, nearly pulled Anna off her feet, such was his excitement at the scent of a walk. As their mom, Shirley, watched them disappear up the nice, middle class street, inhabited by nice, friendly neighbors she couldn't help but think how lucky she was. Two perfect golden girls with their whole lives in front of them.

  Sheba, as was his wont, did his business on Mrs. McKay's front lawn. The girls said hello to Mrs. McKay who, as she did most days, was sweeping the leaves off her lawn, dropped by the huge sycamores that lined the street. Mrs. McKay smiled at the girls as they held their noses and played rock, paper, scissors to see who would pick up after Sheba with the plastic bag they carried. They played five times because, each time Nicole lost, she would laughingly accuse Anna of cheating. Anna won every time. Anna had always been the lucky one.

  They swept past the house on the corner where Mr. Mann worked under the bonnet of his much loved '68 Ford Mustang. He never saw the girls but heard their footsteps and laughter as they ran by. Sheba barked loudly causing Mustang Sally, his ginger striped cat, to jump onto the hood. Startled, he reared up, and struck his head.

  Mrs. Ving, a thirty-eight-year-old Thai immigrant and mother of four troublesome boys and one patient daughter, served the girls at 3:00 p.m. in Mal's drug store. Mal had sold out to the Thai family two years ago but the sign still remained above the door. Nicole had honeycomb and Anna chocolate chip. In the two years Mrs. Ving had owned the store, that was the only flavor Anna had ever tried on her weekly trips. Anna loved the crunchy chocolate bits. At home she swore by chocolate flavored milk, hot chocolate drinks and Nutella sandwiches. She was also prone to hiding the odd chocolate bar in her bedside drawer for when she got hungry late at night. Her mom had no idea how she stayed so slim with white, perfect skin. Just lucky, she guessed.

  Mrs. Ving's daughter, Afre, chatted to Anna. They both were in the seventh grade at Edison Elementary and were taught by Mrs. Dawson, whom they adored because she was young, pretty and told them funny stories about her time teaching in Kenya. Anna thought the boys in her class were silly because they only thought about playing basketball at lunchtime and never tried to do well in class. Anna loved all of her classes.

  Anna told Nicole she was going to hang out with Afre for a while. Sheba sat on the floor happily munching on a cow bone that Mrs. Ving always had waiting for him. Nicole left Anna and Sheba at the shop and arrived home at 3.10 p.m.

  Afre watched from the doorway as Sheba catapulted Anna down the footpath towards home. A strong wind swept through the open door and under her dress so she quickly shut the door. Afre couldn't be sure but she didn't think there were any cars or pedestrians. Through the frosted glass, she could see a blurry Anna running behind Sheba towards home.

  And that was the last time anyone saw thirteen-year-old Anna Gilliam before she was reported missing.

  * * * *

  Anna's uncle, Ben Hiffaunhouse, rang me as I was just packing up gear from a fitness class my partner Bear and I had run in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

  "Yeah?"

  My phone manner had improved a lot since Bear told me I needed to work on it, now that we were taking in many major companies. Before, I would have just grunted.

  "Mark. It's Ben Hiffaunhouse. Bear gave me your number." The diffidence in his tone didn't surprise me. The last time Bear had seen Hiffaunhouse it ended with Bear holding Hiffaunhouse by the feet over the balcony of his one-story apartment.

  Hiffaunhouse ran a fledgling fitness company that had approached many of our clients, trying to undercut us. When Bear heard, he paid Hiffaunhouse a visit. Hiffaunhouse was short on inches and long on chutzpah. He barely came up to Bear's chest, which wasn't unusual as Bear was six and a half feet tall. This didn't deter Hiffaunhouse from abusing Bear, arguing that they lived in a democracy and that all clients were fair game. Bear, contrary to his name, is a gentle soul but five minutes alone with Hiffaunhouse was too long by four and a half minutes. Yes, these were two fitness trainers and not two characters from The Godfather. According to Bear, the last he saw of Hiffaunhouse, the man was screaming that he was going to sue us for every penny we were worth. So I was kind of curious as to why Bear would give him my number.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "Oh," he said, surprised, I suppose, that I would take his call. "Look, I heard that part of your business is locating missing persons. Is that true?"

  "No, that's not part of our business," I answered obliquely. And it wasn't. Officially, we ran Special Forces Fitness. Finding people was something we did on the side. Instead of fishing or golf. We didn't advertise it, as neither Bear or I had any Private Investigator certification and, more to the point, because much of the work we did bordered on the line of illegality. The police had laws and rules they had to follow. We had none. That's why we were so effective. We didn't worry about evidence or proving someone guilty or innocent. We could use any means at our disposal to question people and sometimes this was just as it sounds. We always put the victim's rights ahead of suspects. This didn't endear us to many people. The police thought we were interfering in their cases, suspects feared us and the families frequently ended up hating us because of our intrusive questioning. By the time we were finished the only person pleased to see us was the victim.

  "The reason I ask," Hiffaunhouse said hurriedly, "is my thirteen-year-old niece has gone missing."

  "When?"

  "About thirty minutes ago."

  This was important. Most child abduction deaths occurred in the first two hours of their disappearance. I didn't mention it, but the highest percentage of deaths in that two hours occurred in the first fifteen minutes. The perp suddenly realizes
what he has done and in a rush of fear and guilt gets rid of the evidence. The child.

  "Where?" I asked.

  "Bay Ridge, Brooklyn."

  Good. That was only fifteen minutes away from me.

  "Has your sister called the police?"

  "Yes."

  "What did they say?"

  "They are looking but they aren't really concerned. Anna, that's my niece, has gone missing several times before. One time, she took the train into the city to be with her dad. Her parents are divorced. The police are loathe to waste any manpower until they are certain she's been snatched. The last time she turned up at a school friend's house after a couple of days."

  "And what makes you so sure she has been snatched this time?"

  "You'll have to talk to my sister but she's adamant she hasn't run away. Do you want me to send you a check or something? What are your rates?"

  "I don't have any. People give me what they want to or what they can afford." Truth be told, most times we worked for nothing. Many of the people we helped were poor and we weren't in it for money. Besides, the money we made from our more wealthy clients more than compensated for the ones that didn't.

  "How can you run a business that way? Not that I'm criticizing," he added hurriedly, clearly worried that I would turn him down. He needn't have worried. I never turned anyone down. I had lost so many people in my life I couldn't stand the thought of anyone losing a loved one.

  * * * *

  When I drove up, Anna Gilliam had been missing for fifty minutes. A black-and-white and an unmarked police car were parked outside her home. Two uniforms were going door to door. As I walked up the driveway, two cops in gray suits came out the front door, followed by a woman who, judging from her red, haunted eyes must be Anna's mom, Shirley.

  "Hey, look what the cat dragged in. Are you so desperate for money you're eavesdropping on a police scanner, Tanner?" Detective Scalin was six foot tall, white, about fifty pounds overweight, with thin, mean lips. We had bumped heads on a number of other cases. For some absurd reason he didn't like me.

  "At least I listen to one," I answered mildly.

  Scalin had been reprimanded and demoted several years ago for turning off his radio and phone when taking a lunch break. A bank job had gone down two blocks away while he was still tucking into his spaghetti Bolognese. The bank robbers had actually switched cars in the alley behind the restaurant. Unfortunately for Scalin the media dubbed them the Bolognese bandits. Not exactly a really terrifying name for criminals but the worst possible result for Scalin. He became the endless butt of cop jokes everywhere. By the looks of him, he was still visiting the same restaurant.

  Scalin's face turned red and he stepped close to me.

  "Listen, you piece of trailer-trash, why don't you leave these people alone? You're like one of those bottom-feeding fish living off the misery of others. There's no money to be made here. No one has been abducted at this stage. The girl has probably gone to a friend's house without telling her mom, like she has done many times before."

  "You won't mind if I talk to the mom then? If the girl is going to turn up any minute?"

  "You interfere in any way in this investigation and you'll be eating prison food before you can say, 'Can you please bend over and pick up my soap?' You get my drift?"

  "So there is an investigation? I thought the girl was staying at a friend's house?"

  "I told you she's not staying at a friend's house. Didn't you hear what I said?" Shirley Gilliam jumped in. "And she hasn't run away. Someone's taken her I tell you!"

  "Mrs. Gilliam, we've already had this discussion," said Scalin's partner, Rixon. Rixon was small, lean with thinning brown hair. I remembered reading something about him being under investigation for assaulting a suspect. What a pair. "We'll continue doing a door by door and start a preliminary investigation while you call all her friends. Remember, she's done this six times before. I'm sure she'll turn up." He stared stonily at me and then at Scalin. "Let's go."

  I watched Scalin climb awkwardly into his car; the car sank appreciably on his side.

  "What's a preliminary investigation mean?" Shirley Gilliam asked me.

  "In this case, I'm pretty sure it's steak with extra fries."

  Shirley Gilliam filled me in on what had happened and what the police door to door had discovered.

  "So no one has seen her since she left the drug store..." I checked my watch. Time was ticking away for Anna Gilliam. "Fifty three minutes ago, correct?"

  Shirley nodded. Even though it was a sunny day and she wore a sweater, she stood with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering. Shock. Despite her pretty features, her face was gaunt with worry, her eyes wide and hurt. Her other daughter, Nicole, hugged her and Shirley pulled her in tight.

  My eyes wandered over the Gilliam's modern house, new car, immaculate garden and pedigree dog lying in its kennel. She probably thought that nasty things like child abductions only happened to poor people. That somehow living in a nice house and nice suburb made you immune. It didn't.

  I had a case six months ago where a mom had her daughter snatched when she was in the local supermarket. She had her kid right next to her when she went into the frozen section. She picked up two pizzas, turned around and the girl was gone. That's how quick it can happen. In the blink of an eye. Two lives changed forever.

  I never found that girl. She is still listed as missing.

  "So, Nicole," I said, "you and Anna basically ran to the store?"

  "We didn't have much choice," said Nicole, trying not to cry. "Sheba is always so excited he almost carries us there."

  "Yeah, dogs are like that," I said as I walked over to Sheba. "I have a dog too. His name is Little Bear. And you know what? Whenever I'm outside he's all over me. Always wanting attention or to go for a walk. I bet Sheba is like that too, isn't he?"

  "Yeah, he jumps all over us. He's so big he normally knocks Anna right over," said Nicole, following me.

  I patted Sheba, who lay in the kennel's doorway. He licked my hand and remained lying down.

  "You know the thing I like about dogs? They're so goddam healthy. They're outside in the rain and cold and yet they hardly ever get sick. How many times have you seen Sheba sick, Nicole? See? You can't remember, can you? Phenomenal animals, aren't they? That's why when I see a big, lively dog like Sheba just sitting still, even when there are strangers in the yard, I know something isn't quite right. And you see this pile of yukkie in the kennel? That's Sheba's vomit. Now why would a big, healthy dog like Sheba start vomiting when he was just perfectly healthy an hour ago? Yeah, it's got me puzzled too."

  I took Sheba's big head and studied his eyes. Drool ran over my hands. Sheba gazed placidly back at me.

  "Now, that's interesting. You see that, Nicole?"

  "What?" Nicole got down on her knees to see Sheba better.

  "His eyes. You see his pupils, how they are dilated?"

  "Dilated?"

  "Yeah, see how they're enlarged. That's not normal on a dog."

  "What does it mean?"

  "It means someone gave Sheba something to make him sleepy and he vomited it up."

  "Who?"

  "Now, that's the question."

  * * * *

  The thing about working out how a magic trick is being done is knowing there is a trick in the first place.

  I knew Anna had been kidnapped. Now for the how.

  Sixty-seven minutes had gone. Tick tock tick tock.

  I rang Mole, who accessed the CCTV footage from the DMV of the cameras on the corner of Dudley and Heythorne, the last set of lights before Mal's drug store. It was a long shot as the perp could have come from another direction but it was the main road leading to Anna's street. In the other direction were several secluded dead end streets. Chances were he passed through those lights sometime in the past sixty minutes. Helping us was the fact it was a Sunday and the traffic was quite light.

  Tick tock tick tock.

  Mole rang me at the ninety
minute mark. He spoke like we were in the middle of a conversation. Mole wasn't one for wasting words.

  "I narrowed the search to between 3:15 and 3:30. If the perp went south, that is the time frame he would have went through those lights. Helping us is the fact that it's a quiet street. Only eleven cars went south through the lights between those times."

  "Anything stick out?"

  "The fourth one through the lights is interesting. A white ford pickup."

  "So?"

  "Its license plates and registration sticker were covered with tape."

  "Shit."

  "Yes. Well, the perp probably thought he was really clever."

  "What do you mean thought?"

  "He obviously knows nothing about Dissemination of Geographical Features."

  "He's not the only one."

  "It's a computer program commonly used by archeologists or geologists that interprets differences in amorphous irregularities."

  "Huh?"

  "It tells you what is under bumps in the ground. Like buried buildings."

  "And I want to know this why?"

  Mole spoke slowly, like he was teaching kindergarten. "Because the same technology that recognizes building shapes under the earth can also interpret the bumps made from a little bit of duct tape."

  "So you can work out this guy's license number?"

  "Your astuteness astounds me."

  "I get that a lot."

  * * * *

  One hour fifty-four minutes.

  Tick tock tick tock.

  "I'm in," said Bear through my headset.

  I felt the tumblers click, opened the front door and slipped inside.

  "I'm in the front," I whispered into my throat mike.

  I was in a living room. One sofa, one recliner and a small plasma TV. Scattered across a coffee table, among empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, were many magazines; Teen Vogue, Sassy and CosmoGirl were a few of the titles that caught my eye. A BMX bike was leaning against the drawn Venetian blinds and caused strips of light to peep through the gaps. I stepped over a skateboard and moved into the passageway. The house was preternaturally quiet. I passed a bathroom and a bedroom that were so messy a football team could have been using them. Empty.