by W. L. Dyson
Nick nodded even though he knew Rafe couldn't see it. “Meet me there.”
“I'll be there in ten.”
Nick reached over and disconnected the call. “When we get there, I want you to stay in the car with the doors locked.”
Tuesday, 8:45 p.m.
Green Gardens Hotel, Baltimore
When Nick and Rafe got to the Green Gardens, they strapped on their guns, Mace canisters, Tasers, and handcuffs, then put on their Kevlar vests beneath their coats. Leaving Annie in Nick's SUV with the motor running and the doors locked, they headed for the front of the building.
Green Gardens wasn't green, and it definitely wasn't a garden. It was a run-down hotel too far on the wrong side of town to attract anything but squatters, parolees, prostitutes, and drug addicts looking for a place to crash for a few days. The brick building was eight stories high, cheap-looking, and dirty. Worse, it seemed infested with hopelessness.
Three teenage boys were lounging around near the street. Rafe approached them and talked to them for a few minutes. Then he slipped one of them a few dollars. Nothing came free anymore.
Rafe rejoined Nick at the front door of the building. “They said he's been dealing out of 507. But no one has seen him in over a week.”
The elevator was boarded off, so they climbed the metal stairs to the fifth floor. The carpet held smells even Nick didn't care to identify, and the walls were stained, peeling, and cracked. Someone should have torn the place down decades ago.
Nick stopped at the door of room 507 and knocked. No answer. He knocked again. “Danny? Open up. We need to talk to you.”
Nick began to detect a faint but familiar odor—the rotten-egg stink of a body dissolving itself. He looked over at Rafe, who nodded. “I smell it.”
Nick pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his coat pocket and put them on. Then he turned the knob. It wasn't locked. He pushed it open and stepped back when the smell hit him square in the face.
He pulled out his cell phone and called 911. “I need to report a murder.”
7
Tuesday, 10:00 p.m.
White Marsh, Maryland
Jessica was curled up on the sofa with a lap blanket tucked around her. Soft blues drifted out from her stereo, competing with something thumping off Krystal's stereo from her bedroom upstairs. Jessica was trying to focus on work, the current decision being whether to go with a cream stripe or an ochre plaid for the Nelsons’ sofa. Both would bring out character in their living room. She had been trying for the better part of an hour to ignore the musical conflict, but it was futile.
Tossing the swatches to the coffee table, she closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. What was the point? She tried so hard to create beautiful homes for people, homes filled with color and character, life and love. But how could she, when her own home was a colorless, lifeless place since she and Nick had split up? As for love, he'd taken that with him as well.
When she'd married Nick, she had been walking on air. For the first time in her life she felt loved and cherished and safe. She had become a part of a family—the famous Shepherd family—complete with parents and siblings and cousins and family dinners and big holidays and a hallway lined with pictures of the children growing up. But it didn't take long for the truth behind the facade to show through. The Shepherd siblings sparred, even resented each other, not to mention their parents. Except for Nick, of course. He may have had issues with his siblings, but he loved his father with an unconditional, even blind affection.
But too soon into their marriage, Jessica's so-called knight in shining armor—the man supposedly devoted to family and family values—had turned into someone she didn't know, spending every waking hour with his father, “running the streets,” chasing down criminals. And ignoring his wife and child. So many family vacations had been cancelled that she'd stopped planning them. So many candlelight dinners had dried out in the oven that she'd stopped making them.
So many nights she slept alone.
She tried to make Nick see what he was doing to the family, but he wouldn't listen. So she decided to abandon tears and pleas and move to threats. But it had backfired in her face. When she asked for a divorce, he gave it to her without a whimper.
And everything fell apart.
The bass in Krystal's music was starting to thump inside her head, making her headache worse. She'd try one more time to talk to her daughter, and if that didn't work, she just might pull the plug on the girl's music, cell phone, and television. It was about time someone put her foot down with that child.
She knocked on Krystal's bedroom door, but with the music blasting, it was no wonder the girl couldn't hear anything.
Jessica eased the door open. “Krystal?”
Still there was no answer.
Stepping into the room, she looked around at the clothes all over the floor and the schoolbooks scattered across the bed. Stepping over a stuffed animal, she reached over and turned the bone-vibrating stereo off. The silence was like a punch to her system, and it took a minute for her ears to adjust.
“Krys?”
She stuck her head in the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked around. Where was that girl?
As she turned from the bathroom door, she saw the curtains fluttering.
Krystal was gone.
Wednesday, 12:46 a.m.
Timonium, Maryland
“You'll be fine here, Killer. Now go to sleep.” Steven shut the door to his kitchen and strolled back into the living room to shut off the lights. Just as he bent down to hit the switch, the phone rang. He glanced at the clock. Nearly one in the morning. A little late for someone to be calling about time-shares. He picked it up. “Hello?”
“Stevie?”
His breath went out of him. “Marti?”
“Who else calls you Stevie?”
“Where are you? How are you? What— I…wow.”
There was a little laugh, but it sounded heavy. “Yeah, I know. How are you?”
“I'm fine.” He reached over and straightened a photo frame he'd knocked askew when he grabbed the phone. “We've been trying to find you.”
“A family of bounty hunters, and I can't be found? I'm proud of myself. Listen, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Anything. But—”
“Hush and listen. I don't have much time. I need you to wire me some money. Can you do that? Just a few hundred to tide me over.”
He smoothed the fabric on the arm of his chair, picking at a tiny bit of lint. “Of course. But—”
“I need you to send it Western Union. You have pen and paper?”
He walked over to his desk. Sitting down in the chair, he flipped open his day planner. “Go ahead.”
She gave him the address of a Western Union in Ohio. “Can you do it first thing in the morning?”
“Listen to me. It's been a long time…” He paused. “Dad's gone, Marti.”
There was a moment of heavy silence. “As in…”
“As in, he died three years ago. We've been trying to find you. You need to come home.”
More silence.
“Marti?”
“I'm here,” she whispered. “How?”
“Heart attack. He was out tracking a fugitive and just dropped on the street. Doctors said he was gone before he hit the ground.”
“How's Mom taking it?”
“She's in a nursing home.” Steven closed his day planner and set his pen down.
“What? Why would you do that to her?”
“I'm pretty sure I could ask you the same question, Marti. And anyway, we had to. She's in bad shape. Please. You need to come home.”
“There's nothing I can do for her.”
“You can give her a little peace before she doesn't know who you are anymore.”
“Give her peace. Geesh, Stevie. Lay it on, will you?”
“I'm not laying it on, Marti. I'm serious. I'll leave now and drive out to pick you up. We can be back here tomorrow night. Please.”
He waite
d for seconds that seemed like hours. “No. Can you send me the money or not?”
He stood and walked across the living room to stare out the front window. “Marti, if you don't come back, Prodigal is history. We're in a lot of trouble…business is just not what it used to be. And you inherited one-third. We can't do anything to save the business without your signature.”
“I don't care about Prodigal, Stevie. Don't you get that?”
“Believe me, Marti, I get it. You've made that very clear. But I care about Prodigal, and so does Nick. The business pays for Mom's care and the upkeep on her house. Not to mention payroll for the employees. Nick is practically killing himself to keep the business going. It destroyed his marriage.”
“Like Jessica was a big loss,” she snorted. “I never understood why he married her in the first place.”
“Marti…please think about it.”
“There's nothing to think about, Stevie.”
Steven sighed heavily. Marti always was the most stubborn of the three. “Fine. I'll wire the money in the morning. Give me a number so I can call you when the money's sent.”
“No. I'll let you know if something goes wrong. And Stevie?”
“Yeah?”
“I'll stay in touch.”
“Okay. Hey.”
“What?”
“Love you.”
“Same here.”
Steven slowly set the phone down. Then he shut off the light and headed for his bedroom. He'd done his best. If he and Nick were going to save Prodigal, it would have to be without Marti. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how.
Wednesday, 12:55 a.m.
Towson, Maryland
Nick bypassed the front door to enter through the garage. He shrugged out of his coat and glanced at the clock. Almost one. He tossed his coat on the floor.
Good news—I'm finally home. Bad news—I smell like death and decay.
Danny's corpse had been rotting on the floor for at least a week. Maybe more.
Shaking his head, Nick tried to dislodge the sight from his mind. What he needed was a hot shower and a long night's sleep. With any luck, Danny wouldn't haunt his dreams.
He peeled off his shirt, tossing it in the corner of the bedroom with a grimace. Thank goodness Annie hadn't seen it. Hearing about it had been bad enough. When he told her, she buried her face in her hands and trembled like a poodle facing down a Doberman. She hadn't said a word all the way back to the bar where she picked up her car and drove home. Nick had followed her, just to make sure she got home okay. She gave a half wave and ran inside her building.
He should call her and just make sure she was okay. It wasn't every day a woman like Annie had to deal with the smell of death in the air. Nick's thoughts moved to their deal. Why had she lied to him? Her mother wasn't in the hospital. But what then? And her threats? Bluffs. But again, why? What was she hiding, and why was it so important that she find Zeena? Was it just sisterly love or something more serious?
Nick turned on the shower, his thoughts shifting back to Danny. Word on the streets was that Danny had crossed the wrong people. Who? He was a small-time dealer, pushing low quantities of cocaine, crack, or meth, so chances were good that he had ripped off another dealer. It didn't add up though. From what he saw in the apartment, Danny had been tortured before he was whacked. As if he had known something and, even if he'd given up all the information he had, his killer wanted to make sure he wasn't holding anything back.
What if Zeena had been with him? The last anyone saw or heard of her, she was with Danny. Had she walked in on the killers? Maybe, but if she had, wouldn't they have just left her body there with Danny's? Likely. So chances were, if she did see, she got away, and that might be why no one could find her. She'd go as far underground as she could go.
After showering, he changed into a pair of sweats and went into the foyer to pick up the mail off the floor. Bills. Bills. Advertising material. More bills. And a white business envelope with his name typed on the front. No stamp. No address. Just his name.
He ripped it open and unfolded the letter.
Mind your own business and stick to bail jumpers, or something very bad could happen. How is your daughter, by the way?
His mind went hot white with fury. He marched back into the kitchen and tossed the letter down on the counter. It was time to let the police know about these threats. He'd call Linc and—
The answering machine on the counter was blinking. Eighteen messages. What in the world? Oh yeah. He had turned his cell phone off when he was talking to the police about Sloop and had forgotten to turn it back on.
He pressed the Play button. “Nick, this is Jess. Krystal's missing. Call me!”
Taking a step back, he felt the fury drain, only to be replaced with panic. “Nick. Me again. Where are you! I'm so scared, Nick. Help, please.”
Nick didn't bother listening to any more of the messages. He put on his shoes and ran out the door.
Wednesday, 1:00 a.m.
Park Heights Industrial Park, Baltimore
The old factory was cold and damp, but at least it gave Zeena some protection from the wind. And from Jon Carver's thugs.
“They're out there, aren't they? Waiting for us to show ourselves?”
While Charlie might have been talking about Vietnam, he was still correct. Killers were out there, and they were looking for her. “Yes, Charlie. We have to be very quiet.”
Charlie was a crazy but harmless old man who lived on the streets—most of the time, in the corner of this abandoned building. He came home from Vietnam back in the late sixties. His mind didn't.
Charlie had once told Zeena that he liked the old factory because he could see anything—or anyone—coming from a long distance away. She knew he liked her. She didn't know whether he thought she was his sister or his girlfriend, but he had never touched her, never hassled her, and always let her crawl into that small space between him and the wall. He would even share his small stash of food, alcohol, and drugs with her when he had some.
But he didn't have any right now, and she was starving for them all.
“I'll take first watch,” Charlie said as Zeena curled up tighter next to him.
“Okay.” Zeena shivered under a thin blanket.
She needed a fix, and she needed it now, but at least she was far away from Jon and his goons. When Lester had grabbed her on the street, she thought her life was over. But someone in the store had called the police, and they showed up just as Lester was dragging her to his car. As soon as the police chirped the siren, he'd released her. While he was being frisked by the police and arrested for having a weapon on him, she had made a run for it.
She still felt like she was running—her heart wouldn't stop racing.
She couldn't believe she actually agreed to help Danny sell Jon's laptop back to Jon. What kind of a plan was that? Stupid, stupid, stupid. They must have been insane. No one messes with the Carvers. She had been around Richie long enough to know that.
Danny had called and told Jon that he could have his laptop back in exchange for ten thousand dollars. They'd meet on Reisterstown Road in Park Heights, near a liquor store in town. Carver had immediately agreed to the deal. But Zeena had a bad feeling. Danny brushed off her concerns, confident that they would get their money and be none the worse for it. So Zeena took the laptop and headed down the street to the liquor store where she would wait for Danny to call her and tell her he had the money. Then, as the plan went, she would bring the laptop.
But the call didn't come. And twenty minutes later than scheduled, she saw Carver stalking toward the liquor store. She took off out the back and ran. There was no way Danny would have looked down the barrel of a gun and not told Carver where the laptop was. The next day, the guy at the liquor store told her that Carver and his men had come into the store looking for her. Two weeks later, they were still looking for her.
So now she had to figure out how to get the laptop back to Carver and stay alive afterward.
She wasn't sure Carver would be willing to let bygones be bygones if he got his stuff back, but it was better than hiding out the rest of her life. She'd already missed her court date, so now the bounty hunters were probably chasing her too. If she didn't know for a fact that Jon had arms long enough to reach inside the jail and kill her, she'd call the bounty hunters and turn herself in.
In the meantime, there was only one place she felt even remotely safe. And that was with Charlie.
Zeena gripped her backpack—with the laptop safely stowed—and cuddled it close to her body. She didn't know how to get out of the trouble she was in, but one thing was for sure. Losing the laptop wasn't going to help her one bit. It might even make things worse.
“Zeena?”
“Yeah, Charlie?”
“How long are the killers going to hunt you?”
It was one of the few times Charlie gave any indication that he wasn't always in Vietnam. “I don't know, Charlie. Do you want me to leave?”
He shook his shaggy head and stroked his gray beard. “You're my friend. I'll make sure they don't get you.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
He stood up and looked down at her. “I'm going to do a little recon. I won't be far.”
Wednesday, 1:15 a.m.
Baltimore, Maryland
Jon was not a happy man. He stepped into his condo and slipped out of his cashmere overcoat. “I can't believe it could be this difficult to bring me one drug-addicted prostitute. How does she continue to elude you?”
The two men behind him looked at each other, but it was the tall blond that spoke up, inviting more trouble than he was already in. “Someone called the police, Mr. Carver. I had to let her go. I'll get her. I just need a little more time.”
“Put the word out on the street,” Jon said in a soft voice that was as strong as steel and as sharp as a shard of glass. “A reward to anyone that brings me information leading to her.”
The blond shifted his weight and stepped forward. “You put that word out there, and we're going to have every bag lady and streetwalker in this town lined up in the hall, all trying to convince you that they just saw her down at the local Food Lion.”
