The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3)

by Frances Fletcher

  The weather report came on the radio and he raised the volume. Midsixties this evening. Perfect weather to celebrate by Shore Road after dinner with a bottle of champagne. If—

  After she said yes.

  How long had the car been in accessory? He turned the key so the battery would charge, and the dashboard clock flashed 6:10. That couldn’t be right. He checked his wristwatch and frowned. He had been waiting over forty minutes.

  Grabbing the lighter from his cup holder, he began flicking it, on and off. Now he was getting nervous.

  He glanced at the Council House again, and the front office lights flicked off. He sighed. Finally. He shoved the lighter in his pocket and gripped his door handle, ready to hop out and open the passenger-side door for his lady. But the door didn’t open and Eva was still inside. I’ll call her cell. Straight to freaking voice mail. He dropped his Nextel into the cup holder and grabbed his Maglite. He clicked on the flashers, tossed his police parking placard on the dash, and jumped from the truck.

  He crossed the street and reached the front doors in a flash. He twisted the doorknob, right and then left. It didn’t budge. Eva was locked inside. He banged on the glass door. Kicked it hard. He grasped his Glock, and then loosened his grip. No matter how badly he wanted to get inside, he couldn’t shoot through the door. The thick glass might break, but the iron scroll work would remain impenetrable.

  He pounded on the door. “Eva! Eva!”

  Pacing along the building line, he searched for a way in, or at the least, a view inside, but the first-floor windows were too high. He ran to his truck, opened the back, and dumped out the contents of the emergency kit. After grabbing a yellow waterproof blanket, he ran back across the street to the Council House’s front door.

  He jumped as high as he could, and his fingertips grazed the sill of the first-floor window, but he couldn’t get a grip. He pranced around in circles, looking for anything to help get him inside the building. There! A garbage pail, on the corner. He rolled the pail under the window and flipped it upside down. Leaping onto it, he jabbed the window with the flashlight with all his might. Once, twice, three times. Crack!

  He battered the fractured glass with the flashlight butt over and over again. Break, damn it! Break! The crack grew, but the damn glass held firm.

  He had to get inside and find Eva. Every second counted, and he was wasting time. He jumped back to the sidewalk and lifted the garbage pail as if it were made of balsam wood instead of heavy meshed metal. After aiming the bottom of the pail at the window, he hurled it with all his strength. The pail smashed the glass and bounced back down to the sidewalk, landing upside down.

  Glass fragments rained onto his head and shoulders. After draping the emergency blanket over the window sill, he darted to the curb, faced the building, and charged. When he reached the wall, he kicked off the pail and jumped high enough to grasp the windowsill. Shards of glass penetrated through the blanket and into his palms. Somehow, he held on and hauled himself through the pitch-black opening. He rolled into a squat and yanked the glass from his palms. He was too hyped to feel pain, but slippery hands would slow him down. After wiping his bloody hands on his shirt, he groped for his flashlight.

  Thump!

  He collapsed onto the floor into darkness.

  Chapter 43

  The doorbell rang. “Food’s here!” yelled Dad from the front hall.

  Perfect timing. Mel had just finished feeding the baby. “I’ll set the table,” she said, lowering the baby into the ExcerSaucer she had just purchased. Mel smacked the Big Bird rattle and the baby followed the yellow blur with her eyes. She watched the baby explore the playset for a moment and smiled; glad it would keep Hope occupied now that she was awake more. Besides, the doctor had said the ExcerSaucer would strengthen her neck muscles.

  Taking clean dinner plates from the drying rack, she set the kitchen table while stealing glances at Hope’s progress in her new activity. The baby pawed the plastic ball mounted next to Big Bird and all the colored marbles inside rattled, and she blinked over and over. Mel laughed.

  Mel’s dad plopped a paper shopping bag on the kitchen table. “Carmella, your purse is talking.” Boxer followed him, sniffing away. Her dad unpacked the food, and the aromas of spicy ground beef and fresh salsa filled the air.

  Her stomach grumbled. “Did you remember chopped jalapenos?” she asked, stepping into the dining room where she had left her shoulder bag and jacket.

  “Mel! Pick up! It’s Art.”

  She grabbed the Nextel clipped to her bag’s shoulder strap and clicked Transmit. “I’m here, Art. What’s up?”

  “Richie’s in trouble.”

  “No. He’s off duty.”

  “He’s not picking up his desk phone or cell!”

  “He’s with Eva, on a big date. He’s preoccupied, that’s all.”

  “He’d take my call no matter what.”

  “I’ll try him before we get all nutso.”

  “Rashid’s dead. That’s why I’m trying to reach him.”

  “Dead?” She swallowed. “Murdered dead, didn’t wake up dead? Dead how!” She threw on her jacket as she held the phone to her ear.

  “Suicide.”

  “No way!” She fished in her bag for her spare handcuffs and shoved them in her jacket pocket.

  “I don’t think so either. That’s why I’m driving to Illinois right now. Find Richie and meet me there.”

  “Art, wait! Could they have gotten to him in the penitentiary?” She dragged a chair over to the china cabinet and groped for her Smith & Wesson hidden on top. She jumped back to the floor and tucked her weapon into her waistband.

  “I’ve looked into the Shadow Intelligence Network. They’re a bunch of rogues. They can get to anyone, anywhere, anytime. Call me as soon as you hear from Richie.”

  “Keep in touch, Art. You might be on their radar, too.”

  “I’m more worried about Richie. If I’m right, and the SIN did murder Rashid, then they must know about his meetings with Richie.”

  “Be careful, Art.” She wondered how much she and her colleagues didn’t know and prayed that the unknowing didn’t get them all killed.

  She hung up and took a deep breath. A wave of tension washed over her and squeezed her chest. She hadn’t felt this way since the day Matt was killed, the day the Impoverished sent a suicide bomber onto a city bus. Art had called her then, too. He’d warned her that Richie was in danger. Just like now.

  She pressed Richie’s speed dial button and her stomach percolated as it rang and went to voice mail. She hung up and tried again. Voice mail! She jabbed the End button. Art was right—Richie would never ignore their calls.

  She hovered her thumb over Mark’s speed dial button, and déjà vu hit her so hard her legs got all rubbery. That day, over four years ago, she had dialed Matt right after ending the call with Art. She and Matt had raced to Richie’s building while it was still being raided. They rescued Richie and chased after Ibrihim. And they were too late by seconds. Ibrihim detonated his dynamite-filled duffel bag. And Matt had died while saving her life. If she hadn’t called Matt for help that morning . . . She pocketed her Nextel, leaned on the dining room table, and waited for her legs to steady.

  Boxer trotted to her side. He nuzzled her hand and yelped.

  Her dad hurried into the dining room, and Mel shook her head. “Boxer, you tattle-tale.”

  “Carmella, you’re white as a sheet,” he said, taking her arm and leading her into the kitchen. “Sit down.” He dashed to the sink.

  “I don’t have time to sit, Dad.” Boxer sat at her feet, blocking her in. She heard the faucet running. “I have to get to the Council House and warn Richie and Eva.”

  “A minute is not going to make any difference, Carmella.” He placed a cold, wet dishrag on her forehead.

  She pushed the towel away. “Dad, I’m fine.” She patted Boxer out of the way, bent down and hugged Hope. “I’ll be back soon, baby girl.”

  “At lea
st call Mark,” he hollered as she reached the front hallway.

  “Okay, Dad.” But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t bear to lose Mark, too. Besides, this time she was driving to a prestigious think tank in Midtown Manhattan, not into a suicide bomber’s target.

  Chapter 44

  Eva gazed at Mr. Rock’s face and gasped. The lighting from the dusty bulb overhead cast strange shadowing around his cheeks and nose. Green scaly flakes looked as if they were about to peel off his skin. She couldn’t turn away from the horror. The bloodshot veins in the yellow of his eyes had been covered over by a putrid green tint. She stared into vertical black slits that a moment ago were watery pupils, and was assaulted by the essence of his soul. Nothingness, aloneness—an empty void.

  Deep despair and oblivion invaded her core, and she gagged. Her heart ached from the effort of pushing out the nihility of Mr. Rock’s soul. Bile rose to the back of her throat. She wouldn’t throw up in front of this vile thing. Choking back vomit, she forced her eyes shut and took shallow breaths. She pictured her heart awash in light and love. And the emptiness vanished.

  “I’ll ask one last time. Who sent you here?”

  She opened her eyes and stared into his bloodshot eyes once again, his flabby old face had returned. His transformation into something reptilian might have been a trick of the lighting, but her sense of his sociopathic soul was undeniable. She understood now. How he could be so cruel, how he could order the murder of thousands of innocent people. With no regard at all for humanity—no empathy in his heart or mind—his soul was a breeding ground for evil.

  It was worse than she had feared. Mr. Rock would have her tortured and killed without a second of remorse. She was doomed no matter what she told him. She might as well go down strong and proud, and shake his confidence a little. “My love for America sent me here. And I searched your files to protect her citizens and all the people of the world from you and your kind.”

  He cocked his head and smirked. “Those are your last words? You’ve lived in America too long and have become a dreamer.”

  A bang shook the ceiling, and dust trickled down on them.

  Mr. Rock pointed his cane at the roof. “Check it out.”

  The bodyguard ran into the elevator.

  The moment the elevator doors closed, Martin exploded from his chair and punched Mr. Rock in the face. The chairman’s hands flew to his nose and his cane clattered to the floor. He fell from his chair onto his butt, legs splayed. Blood spurted through his fingers and down his tailored dress shirt.

  Seizing the opportunity, Eva pulled on her ties and loosened the rope. She heard the elevator begin to descend, and pulled harder. Standing over Mr. Rock, Martin fumbled with the handcuff key, and soon the cuff sprung free of his wrist. He snapped the open cuff around Mr. Rock’s wrist.

  “Unhand me!”

  Martin made a fist, and that’s all it took for Mr. Rock to surrender. He twisted his back so Martin could reach the other arm. But Martin couldn’t pull the wrist close enough to snap on the other handcuff. He huffed, and glanced at Eva. “If I tug any harder, I’ll dislocate his shoulder.”

  “There’s an oil pipe behind you. Handcuff him to that.”

  Martin began to drag him to the pipe, but it was slow-going. “Scuffle over, old man or I’ll punch you again. And this time, I won’t hold back.”

  Chapter 45

  Mel neared the Council House and eased her foot off the gas pedal. Richie’s truck was parked in front of the hydrant across the street from the main entrance. The flashers were blinking. She shook her head in relief. He’s fine. His phone battery must have died, that’s all.

  Cruising alongside the Bronco, she rolled down her window. The truck’s tinted passenger-side window remained closed. Didn’t he see her pull up? She knocked on the window. No response. She inched her sedan forward, shifted into park, squeezed out of her door, and ran around the nose of the Bronco.

  She pulled open the driver’s door and frowned at the empty interior. Keys dangled from the ignition. As she pocketed the keys she heard a familiar beep. Another beep. Richie’s cell phone rested in the cup holder and beeped again.

  The display showed five missed calls. Two from Art, two from her, and one . . . from Mark. None from Eva. Richie must be inside with her. She put the phone back in the cup holder and wrinkled her nose. Something was amiss. She shrugged and jumped down from the truck.

  She looked at the Council House. A light was on inside the entranceway, but not a glimmer shone through any of the windows. Were Richie and Eva inside in the dark? She dialed Eva’s cell phone as she ran across the street, ducking through parked cars, and gasped when she reached the sidewalk. The front window was smashed. A yellow emergency blanket hung from the windowsill, and a Department of Sanitation garbage pail stood upside-down in front of the window.

  Eva’s cell began to ring. Pick up, damn it!

  A musical tone sounded from the room inside the broken window. Mel cocked her head as the Nextel rang again. The musical tone was repeated. She slammed her Nextel shut and the ringtone coming from the dark room cut off. Why hadn’t she answered?

  Mel jumped on the pail and stretched up as far as she could but missed the window sill by a foot. A foot! The distance in height between Richie and her. He must have entered this way. She had to get inside too.

  She looked around for something higher than the garbage pail to stand on. The corner mailbox reached her shoulder. Perfect! But it was bolted to the sidewalk. She ran to her sedan and drove to the corner and onto the curb. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and aimed the vehicle at the mailbox. Her right foot hovered over the gas pedal and was about to floor it. She’d ram that mailbox from the cement. Suddenly, she slapped her forehead and stomped on the brake. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Use the darn car as a ladder! She backed under the window, banged the gear shift into park, and grabbed her flashlight. She climbed on the car’s roof and jumped right through the front window. Easy peasy, dummy! She had almost wrecked the sedan for nothing.

  She pointed the flashlight down and turned it on. A scraping noise and footsteps came from deeper inside the building. Oh, boy. Something was being dragged across the floor. She crept through the front office to the doorway leading to the lobby. Some light shone from the entranceway. She turned the flashlight off. It just made a target out of her anyway.

  Creeping across the lobby, she followed the noises. They were coming from the rear of the building now. Taking a breath, she tiptoed down the hallway, and peeked into the back room. She made out the dark shapes of a refrigerator and a dinette set. An archway let in some light. She shielded her eyes so the whites wouldn’t give her away.

  A metallic clanking noise came from the archway! She dropped to the floor and hid behind the table. Two muscular men in dark suits were carrying a limp body into an elevator. The door closed before she could get a better look. The down arrow glowed.

  She clicked on the flashlight and jumped to her feet. Liquid drops glistened against the ceramic tile. She dabbed a drop with her finger and sniffed. An iron smell. She pointed the beam along the path the men had taken, and followed a blood-drop trail. The blood was minimal, but an oblong red shape caught her eye. She picked it up. A red BIC lighter.

  The one Richie always kept in the Bronco’s cup holder.

  Chapter 46

  Eva watched as Mr. Rock’s bodyguards backed out of the elevator. “Martin,” she whispered. “They’re both back.”

  The men were dragging a body. The person’s head flopped back, but Eva couldn’t make out his face in the dark. Then his eyes flashed open and she gasped. The man was alive. The bodyguards let the body slump to the floor and ran toward Martin.

  Martin, still pulling Mr. Rock’s arm toward the oil pipe, dropped it just in time to block a punch from the stocky bodyguard. The other helped Mr. Rock stand and escorted him to the elevator. “Stay close to the wall, sir,” he said. He turned and pulled a Glock from his pocket.

  Martin pu
mmeled the stocky bodyguard with both fists, over and over, until the man fell to the floor. His face bounced off the concrete with a loud crack. Martin charged the elevator.

  “Look out! He’s got a gun!”

  The blonde bodyguard was pointing the Glock sideways at Martin.

  Eva sighed with relief—the man had no clue how to handle the gun. Martin still had a chance. “Duck, Martin! Duck!”

  The bodyguard fired and his arm flew up as the bullet grazed the floor. He shook out his arm and used both hands to grip the gun. The man couldn’t miss this time!

  * * *

  A muffled pop rose from the elevator shaft. A gunshot. Mel put one hand over her mouth, and the other on the butt of her Chief. What to do? She couldn’t call the elevator. She’d be a sitting duck. What to do? She circled the kitchen, searching for a staircase to the basement. There had to be a staircase down! Then she spotted a service door across from the elevator alcove. Cracking open the door, she peeked out into an alleyway. She stepped outside.

  The alley ran the whole length of the building and widened into a driveway near the Park Avenue entrance. A pearl Rolls-Royce faced the street. How many pearl Rolls were there, even in this fancy neighborhood? It had to belong to Dewer Rock.

  She trotted down three steps and searched for a door to the cellar. All she saw were darn windows. She squatted next to the first basement window she came across and looked inside. A tall black guy charged into an alcove and disappeared from her field of vision. Richie? She craned her neck and looked deeper in the basement. A woman’s legs were tied to a chair, her feet stomping the floor. She gasped. Eva?

  Mel flipped open her cell phone and hit the Division Dispatcher’s preprogrammed number. No ringing. She pressed End and dialed 9-1-1. Nothing. The display screen was dark. The Nextel was dead.

  She bit her lower lip. She was on her own, again. Her dad had been right. I should’ve called Mark.