by W. L. Dyson
“Hey, little guy. Are you lost?” He held out his hand, gently inviting the dog to accept his presence as nonthreatening. “I won't hurt you.”
The dog shivered, then whined. “I can call the pound for you. They'll give you a good meal and a warm place to sleep.” Poor guy looked how Nick felt, and he figured at least one of the two would be cared for today.
The little dog inched forward, eyes hovering between wary and grateful for attention. Nick told himself not to fall for it. “Oh, there's no way I can keep you, little guy. You don't understand how much I have on my plate right now.”
He rolled his eyes as the pup whined pitifully. “I think I have a cold hamburger somewhere in the backseat. You're welcome to it. And when we get back to my office, I'll call the pound.”
Finally the dog sniffed his hand, wagged his tail, and looked up at Nick with something as close to hero worship as a dog can get. Taking that as an invitation, Nick scooped up the muddy little pup and carried him to the rear of the SUV. He popped the rear hatch and pulled a towel from his gym bag. He wrapped it around the dog, closed the rear, and walked around to slide back in behind the wheel. He set the dog on the passenger seat and leaned back to rummage through some trash in the backseat.
“Aha! I knew it.” He held up a fast food bag. “Yesterday's lunch.”
After giving the pup the rest of the hamburger and cold fries, he turned up the heater and headed to the office.
The dog swallowed the food whole, then tapped his little foot on Nick's thigh. “No, I will not get attached to you. You need to be in a nice home with a couple of kids.”
The pup withdrew his paw, curled up in a tight ball, and closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.
Nick's thoughts drifted back to business as he pulled up to a stoplight. Somehow, he had to keep Prodigal from going under.
When his father started Prodigal Fugitive Recovery, the county— just a half hour outside Baltimore—was a rural farming district where the crime was primarily trespassing, drunk and disorderly, and the occasional bounced check.
But in the late seventies, those suburbanites who had once turned their noses up at their grandparents’ farms suddenly found themselves nostalgic for the country life. They came in droves, buying up farms, building homes, and opening businesses. With the increases in the population, crime skyrocketed. Drug dealers moved in. As did the prostitutes, strip joints, liquor stores, and pawn shops right behind them. Where there were drugs and drug money to be made, the gangs moved in, pushing out the old residents and taking over large blocks of the city. Then Baltimore became a sanctuary city, and crime jumped up again.
With the increase in crime came more lawyers, more bail bond companies, and with the upsurge in more violent crime, bail bond companies needed someone to bring in the criminals who decided to skip their court dates.
And Prodigal Recovery was there to help out all those small bail bond companies. But now, those little bail bond companies were being overshadowed by the larger ones that tended to employ their own fugitive recovery agents. Like Triple A, one of Prodigal's biggest competitors.
And Prodigal's business began to decline.
The only answer now was to start writing bail bonds. Unfortunately, the surety companies that would guarantee the bail bonds all claimed to have agents in the area, and none were willing to saturate the market with more. Nick was forced into the unfortunate position of needing his own assets to guarantee the bonds. Assets that were tied up until he could find his sister. But after months of searching, researching, and even hiring detectives, finding her was proving as hard as getting a loan.
Tuesday, 10:45 a.m.
Belvedere Ave., Park Heights section, Baltimore
Annie closed her umbrella, took a deep breath, straightened her suit jacket, and pulled open the door to the Stark Lily. She wanted to turn around and run out. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but the smells hit her immediately—sweat, alcohol, smoke, and the not-so-subtle odor of despair. This was the third bar she'd been to so far, and they were all so similar that she wasn't sure if she was just revisiting the same one over and over.
Spotting the bar along the side wall, she wove through a few tables and approached the bartender, a rough-looking man with more muscle than age. “Excuse me?”
“Macy's is down at the mall, sweetheart. You're on the wrong side of town.”
Annie licked her lips and tried to ignore a man who was moving down the bar to get closer to her, leering in a way that made her ease farther back. “Um…I'm looking for, uh, Zeena. I understand she frequents—”
“Frequents?” The bartender laughed as he twisted the cap on a bottle and set it on the shelf behind him. “Honey, people don't frequent this place. They hang out here, they do business here, they get drunk here. But they don't frequent.”
“Okay, she ‘works’ out of this bar. Have you seen her lately?”
He tipped his head and stared at Annie with nothing but loathing. “Honey, if she works outta this bar, she don't show up for work until dark.” He leaned over the bar, his sour breath forcing her to lean away. “Johns don't come in here at ten in the morning looking for a good time, ya git me? 'Course I ain't seen her.”
“But you know her?”
He smirked. “You think I know every working girl on the streets of Baltimore? Gimme a break.”
“Listen,” Annie said, trying to muster a harder attitude. “I'm trying to find my sister. Have. You. Seen. Her?”
He shook his head. “Try missing persons.” He picked up a rag and started wiping down the counter, dismissing her.
Tuesday, 10:47 a.m.
En route to Prodigal Offices, Baltimore
As Nick drove, he was distracted by thoughts of his sister. After all his searching for her, he had still not gathered any legitimate clues. Where are you, Marti? Just as he had done many times before, he tried to get into her head. Why would she have left? Where would she go?
As he was chasing his sister's mental rabbit, his cell phone chirped. He turned down the music and flipped it over to hands-free. “Shepherd.”
“Nick?” It was Jenna, Prodigal's secretary, bookkeeper, and general all-around office manager. She was forty, looked thirty, and had a son in his first year of college. Her husband, Mark, had been killed while in Egypt on business—a terrorist bomb at a hotel that was known for housing American tourists. A widow for several years, she tended to mother the men at Prodigal. She said it helped her keep a line drawn that she didn't want to cross. He had the sense that Rafe was the one she wanted to keep behind the line, but if Rafe ever figured that out, Nick knew he'd have Jenna at the altar before she had time to pick out a wedding cake.
“Yeah, Jenna?”
“We just got a call from Robbins Bail Bonds. They have two skips they need to find like yesterday and want to know if we can give them immediate attention.”
The light turned red and Nick hit the brake. “I thought we lost all their business to Triple A.”
“Seems Triple A took on more than they could handle and can't guarantee they can get to them for at least two to three weeks. Robbins doesn't have that long.”
Grinning, Nick felt the first nudge of hope all day. “Tell him we'll give it priority. Then tell Steven to get right on it.”
There was a slight hesitation before she replied, “I'll tell him.”
“He's not in yet, is he?” Nick ground his teeth. “Never mind. Give them to Conner and tell him I said highest priority.”
“Will do.”
Snapping his phone closed, Nick heard a horn honking and then noticed that the light was green. He hit the gas. The dog opened one eye and sighed. “Well, sorry to disturb your sleep.”
A few minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot behind Prodigal and cut the engine. He stared at the building for a moment. Prodigal Recovery was housed in a three-story red brick building on the corner of Second Street and Market. It was practically a landmark in the county. It was tucked neat
ly between the courthouse and the nine-story glass and steel building commonly known as Lawyer's Row. In the late 1800s, a judge found out that property had been acquired to build a new courthouse. He immediately purchased the lot next door and built himself a home so that he could live close to work.
The old courthouse had moved as the area had been taken over and incorporated into Baltimore's city limits. The judge's house remained a private home until Nick's father bought it and turned the first floor into the office for Prodigal Recovery. The second floor of the building was leased out to a defense attorney and an accountant, while the third floor was for storage. Maybe he should think about converting that third floor into offices for rent. He could use the extra income.
Pushing his thoughts aside, he picked up the dog. “Okay, little dude. Let's go see if Jenna has a bowl of water for you.”
“Not another lost dog.” Jenna pursed her lips as Nick walked toward her desk.
“I couldn't help it.” Nick shook the rain from his hair. “Look at him. He's so small, and he was wet and hungry. You think I should have just left him out there in this weather?”
Jenna sighed as she took the dog from him. “I think there's still some kibble in the kitchen from the last stray you found.” She took a few steps and then turned around. “They're waiting for you in your office.”
“Who?” He picked up the stack of messages on the corner of her desk and started paging through them as he stepped into his office.
Rafe was lounging on the sofa, his feet propped up on the coffee table. Conner was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. They were both looking at the TV. They didn't look happy.
Nick tossed the messages on his desk and unzipped his coat.
“You're going to want to hear this.” Rafe picked up the remote to the television and increased the volume.
“…statewide for any information leading to the capture of either of these two escaped fugitives. Back to you, Heather.”
The pictures of two men flashed up on the screen. He didn't recognize the one, but he knew the other one better than he wanted to. Richie Carver. “Richie escaped?”
“Yep.” Rafe replied.
Nick could feel everything in his body slow down, as if waiting for him to decide whether to breathe, think, or react. The dream came at him, flashing in black and white and color images—the dark basement, the knife, the blood, and Krystal dying in his arms. It brought out a cold sweat across his forehead as he sank down into his chair.
They flipped to other channels, finally hearing the report several times before Nick had the full story. “I can't believe they transferred two dangerous criminals in the middle of the night with only two guards. What were they thinking?”
“They moved them a week before they were scheduled to go, so they probably thought they had their bases covered,” Conner explained.
“Then how did Richie plan this escape?”
Jenna strode into the office with a file folder and tossed it on the corner of Nick's desk. Then she pursed her lips with that disapproval that mothers were famous for and turned the television off. “You've watched the same report four times. I think you know all there is to know. I believe we have work to do, boys.”
“Boys?” Rafe clutched both hands over his heart. “That hurts, Jenna, my love. That really hurts.”
Shooting him a withering glance, she picked up an empty soda can from the corner of Nick's desk and left the office.
Nick reached for his soda, and when he realized it was gone, recalled that Jenna had just picked it up. He stood. “Conference room. Immediately.”
Jenna stuck her head in the door. “Nick, someone's on the phone. Wouldn't tell me who he was.”
Nick reached for the phone and nodded toward Conner. “I'll be there in a minute. Pull all the active files and have them ready for me.” Nick sat down as his men left the room. “Hello?”
“Hey, bounty hunter. Miss me?”
“Where are you, Richie? Let's make this easy.” Nick pulled up the caller ID, but the number was blocked.
Richie laughed, obviously far more amused than Nick was. “You always made me laugh, Nicky-boy. Nah, I just wanted to let you know that I didn't forget my promise to you, and I hope you ain't forgotten either.”
“I see you haven't grown any smarter, Richie. Stay away from me and mine.”
“Yeah, well, I think Jon told you to stay away from us and you didn't listen too good. I'll see you soon, bounty hunter.”
Richie hung up before Nick could respond. Slowly, Nick set the phone down. If that man came anywhere near his daughter… He couldn't bring himself to think that far. Still, protecting Krystal had just become his highest priority. He pushed back from the desk and strode briskly to the conference room.
Everyone was sprawled out—feet up on the conference table, talking over coffee, Rafe munching on one of the doughnuts Jenna had brought in. Nick walked straight to the whiteboard and began writing names. “I want the name of anyone we have paper on that is in any way connected to Jon or Richie Carver. I don't care if it's his dog's veterinarian that didn't pay a parking ticket.”
Conner's feet swung down and hit the floor. “What's going on, Nick?”
“We need to find Richie Carver. I want him back in custody before he even has a chance to remember what freedom tastes like. Rafe, pull his prison calls. Get the tapes along with log lists. I want to know everyone he's talked to since he's been in. Track every number. Steven can put the plumbing signs on the van and do surveillance at Jon's. I doubt Richie will show up there, but if he does, I want to know before Jon does.”
Conner glanced over at Rafe and then back to Nick. “The police are on it, Boss.”
“I don't care. We can go places they can't.” He placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. “Larry Borden works for Jon. So does Tommy Lester. Zeena works out of Jon's bars. Any of them may have information on Richie, so I want them at the top of our to-do list. Who else do we have?”
Conner didn't bother to hide his concern. “Boss, this isn't our job. He didn't jump bail. He escaped from a prison transport.”
“He escaped.” Turning, Nick drew lines under the two names. “We know him better than anyone. I want him back in jail.” He looked from Conner to Rafe and then tossed the marker down.
“We have no authority,” Conner said. “You know that.”
“I'm going after him, Conn. I want that piece of slime back behind bars before he can even think my daughter's name. I will kill him if he touches her, and I'm pretty sure we don't want another man in jail for murder. So let's make sure I keep a clean record and find him.”
“You don't really think he's going to go after Krystal, do you? We get threats like that all the time, Boss.”
“The man hates me. I've turned him in to the authorities more than a few times, and now for a life sentence. Not to mention he's had eight months to plan his vengeance out to the very last detail.” Nick looked down for a second. “Look. He just called to say he's after her. He's fixated on the idea.”
Conner whistled softly, then threw his hands up. “Fine. I'm with you on this.”
“Where should we start?” Rafe asked.
“I want his phone log at the prison. Track every number he's called since the day he stepped into that cell. There's no way he could have done this without outside help. If it looks like a dead end, run all the phone codes. He may have traded with another prisoner to make his calls. Run Jon's number too, and make sure it comes up on Richie's phone code. See how fast you can get the recordings for all Richie's calls.”
“You don't really think that Richie and Jon would plan a prison escape over the phone, do you?” Conner planted both arms on the table and started fingering through the open files.
“No, but Richie isn't as smart as Jon. He's merely the muscle. He may have slipped up somewhere before Jon had a chance to shut him up.”
Rafe picked up the phone to order the phone logs. Conner, on the othe
r hand, was still reluctant. “Boss, we have skips to find. Skips that bring in money we need. Finding Richie isn't going to fill the coffers. And even if the state eventually puts a bounty on his head, you know they are notoriously slow about paying up. If they pay up.”
“We'll get the skips.”
The two sat in silence for a moment while Rafe ended his phone call.
“What's the story on the logs?” Conner asked as Jenna came in and set a message down in front of Nick.
“We'll have them this afternoon.” Rafe grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “Patty is crazy about me. She said she'd have them couriered over.”
Jenna sniffed. “Hotshot Rafael does it again.”
Rafe laughed as he puffed out his chest. “When ya got it, ya got it.”
“Depends on what you've got and if there's a cure for it.” She turned on her heel and strode out.
Nick picked up the message. It was from his ex-wife. She could wait. He tucked it in his pocket.
Conner stood. “So where to first?”
“Borden,” Nick responded. “He and Richie barely moved without telling the other when and how. Richie might run to him for help.”
“Wouldn't he run to Jon first?” Rafe offered.
Nick shook his head. “Too risky. He knows every police officer in the state will already have Jon under surveillance. He'll need someone like Borden to be the go-between and get to Jon for him. Borden's where we look first.” Nick stood, reached for the doughnut box, then took a big bite of a chocolate glazed. With his mouth full, he said, “We're done here. Let's get started.”
Without another word, they spread out, preparing to go out on the streets. Cans of Mace were strapped on, handcuffs clipped to their belts. Guns were holstered and badges donned. Rafe also had a telescoping baton strapped to his belt, while Conner had a shotgun tucked in his duffel bag and Nick clipped on a Taser.
