“I don’t want the money back. I want her snuffed, preferably yesterday. Same deal, only this time you don’t screw it up.”
“I think if you want a better caliber of contractor, you should consider paying a little more.”
The big man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How much more?”
“I think another ten grand would get you the best in the business.”
“I thought I was already paying for the best.”
“Do you want this done right, or do you want best efforts? Ten grand will eliminate any uncertainty.”
“You’re a crook.” The big man smiled an evil grin, revealing a mouthful of haphazard dental work.
“That I am. But I’m your crook.”
The bald man raised his glass and beckoned to the bartender, who brought the bottle.
By the time it was half gone, enough information had been recorded to put the biker in prison for twenty lifetimes.
~ ~ ~
Silver took a cab to the headquarters’ garage and pulled her car out of the stall, the ugly memories of the shooting lingering as she made her way to the exit. The attendant waved her on, and she pulled out and gunned the engine, intent on making it to Brooklyn without any delays.
A part of her questioned her conviction, debating silently with the other part of her that was sure she’d tumbled across the solution to the case.
She pulled onto the Brooklyn Bridge and watched the New York skyline disappear in her rearview mirror as she headed towards Howard Jarvis’ current address. The familiar bulk of her Glock rubbed against her hip – her thigh-length jacket was cut to conceal it when she was standing. She’d put a second fully-loaded magazine in her pocket, prepared for anything.
Silver didn’t have a plan. Her strategy was to meet with the suspect, see if it was indeed the man who had been shadowing her at home, and if it was…what? Beat a confession out of him? Threaten to blow his head off? Arrest him without having built a case that would hold any sort of water?
She had to admit that part of her approach wasn’t fully formed, but it felt good to be out, taking action, doing something, instead of waiting for the phone to ring while alternating between rage and despair. At the very least, she could get a feel for where the man lived and possibly interview some of the neighbors. Maybe this was all a red herring, in which case she’d wasted part of her busy day following up on an interview. But if she suspected that it was something else…she’d have to play it by ear.
The neighborhoods deteriorated as she made it closer to her destination. Even with the improvement in Manhattan’s outlying areas, some had resisted changes for the better, and this section of Brooklyn appeared to be one of them. Groups of menacing youths cold-stared her as she crept along the streets, following the dash-mounted GPS’ map to Howard’s new address. Graffiti covered most of the lamp posts and street-level walls: gang tags proclaiming turf with vividly-colored flourishes.
She turned the corner onto his street and estimated that it was two blocks up on the right. Unlike the city’s, these sidewalks were largely empty, the residents locked away in their homes behind barred windows, or at work. The only pedestrians were sketchy-looking junkies and the obvious gang members engaged in supplying them with their substance of choice. Even the cars seemed beaten down and tired, mostly older economy vehicles, with the odd German luxury brand, no doubt the conveyances of the dealers.
Silver pulled to the curb in front of Howard’s tiny home, two stories that spoke of decades of neglect and hard times. She shouldered her purse and touched her pistol reassuringly before exiting the vehicle. Taking the stairs to the front door with care, she noted that the drapes were drawn behind the iron-barred, ground-floor windows, making it impossible for her to see inside the house. As she reached for the doorbell, she automatically scanned the surroundings but didn’t see any signs of life.
The buzzer screeched inside as she jabbed the button. She waited patiently but didn’t hear anything from inside. Trying again, she shifted her weight and strained to detect any evidence of the occupant being home. She knocked loudly, and when she got no response, she peered around the porch to the small backyard. Brown patches of ignored grass struggled to survive between the tall concrete perimeter walls.
Silver descended the stairs and moved to the side gate, fabricated out of the same iron bars that protected the windows, and found it open. That surprised her, but not so much that she was unwilling to continue. She peered cautiously up at the neighboring homes, wary of watchers. The buildings extended further back on their lots, so she wouldn’t be visible to them if she was careful.
At the back door, she halfheartedly tried the knob, but it was locked. She shielded her eyes from the light and peered through the dirty glass, trying to make out what was inside, but only saw a kitchen counter with a few water bottles on it, and a backpack.
Her impulse was to try to pick the lock and execute an unauthorized entry, but she reminded herself that she was one of the good guys, and the good guys didn’t break and enter.
Frustrated, she tried the door again, but it didn’t budge.
She looked around and spotted a garbage can. Silver again scanned the surrounding homes and calculated that she could reach it without being spotted. It was worth a peek – she was already there, so the hard work was done.
She opened the lid and looked inside – not a lot of trash – mainly empty bottles, the usual wrappers, and a pizza box. Silver was preparing to lower the lid back into place when she noticed several fingerprint smudges on the outside of the box – grease, or tomato paste.
Small smudges. Like a child’s.
The blood drained from her face.
Maybe Howard had a grandchild, or a nephew or niece? She struggled to remember, but thought it had been just the wife and the daughter. With a trembling hand, she withdrew her phone and took several photographs of the garbage can sitting outside the house, and then a few close-ups of the box in the trash. The time/date stamp would confirm that it pertained to this visit.
Now she needed to retrieve the box without contaminating it. A part of her brain was thinking about evidence chains, due process, and reasonable cause, but another part was shrieking that her baby might be inside, only a few feet from where she was standing. The internal struggle lasted until she picked up a branch and cautiously lifted the box out, holding one side with a tissue she’d fished from her jacket pocket, her breath catching in her throat for fear of dislodging it.
A light breeze tugged at a corner of the empty carton and she watched in helpless horror as it tumbled out of her grasp and landed on the dying lawn, flipping open in the process. She moved to retrieve it but a gust blew it another few feet away from her, shaking three pieces of pepperoni loose from the bottom and sending them tumbling onto the grass.
Silver stooped over to retrieve the container and then froze. She slowly drew her Glock and turned to the back door.
Inside, the slices of congealed meat had fallen away, revealing four unmistakable letters scratched into the cardboard.
The wind pushed the box, now forgotten, towards the far wall, where it stuck in the hedge, propped open by the breeze, the message visible from a few feet away.
Silver thumbed her phone and dialed headquarters, but it still went directly to Sam’s voicemail. She stabbed another number, but Art’s line was busy. At least she had tried, she reasoned. Then her instinct to save her daughter’s life preempted any others, and she kicked in the rear door, the lock shattering on the second blow.
Across the meager backyard, the sun glinted against the glistening tomato sauce that had been used to increase the legibility of the four letters scratched into the carton bottom. They were unmistakable, etched in a child’s shaky script.
HELP
Chapter 24
Silver stepped into the narrow rear hall, the splintered shards of the doorjamb crunching underfoot. Her Glock 23 was clenched in both hands, pointed in front of her. She stopped in the kitchen, tilt
ing her head to detect any hint of movement in the house. A creak sounded from the second story. A few seconds later, another. She couldn’t be sure whether it was the breeze or someone overhead, but she steeled herself to find out.
As she stood motionless, a third creak sounded, and she began to believe it was the wind – the sound came from the same area each time at the front of the house. She turned so that she would present as small a target area as possible and cautiously eased into the hall between the small combination dining/living room and the stairs leading to the upper level.
The floor plan was typical of the older row homes in the area – a modest downstairs forty feet deep by twenty feet wide consisting of the living area, and two or three bedrooms up, usually two, one in the rear and the other facing the street, with a landing and hall between them. She confirmed that nobody was downstairs and then carefully put weight on the first stair tread as she began ascending to the upper floor.
At the third step, the wood beneath her foot emitted a squeak. She stopped, her heart pounding in her ears. Her finger caressed the Glock’s trigger, ready to empty the weapon at anything that moved. She stood like that for a seeming eternity and then heard the creak from the front bedroom again – same as before. She was almost positive it was the wind now, but she still moved with stealthy deliberation as her head, and then her body, moved into sightline of the second floor landing. Both bedroom doors were closed, although the single bathroom between them had its battered door ajar. Now she was faced with an impossible choice – which bedroom to search first?
The front bedroom creaked again, and she realized it was the door – every time a draft moved through the house, it stirred it just enough to coax a protestation. Taking a deep breath, she made two rapid strides and threw herself flat against the wall. A single bead of sweat trickled from her hairline, down her temple, and then ran to the corner of her mouth, where it hung before she flicked at it with her tongue.
She took another step, and then another. Once she was alongside the door, she slowly dropped her left hand from its position on the pistol butt and gripped the worn pewter knob and turned it, trying to make no sound. When she felt the mechanism disengage, she flung the door ajar, pausing a split second before moving into the doorway in a crouch.
The second bedroom’s door burst open, and she spun, training her weapon on it, ready to fire. The door bounced against the wall and then swung shut again, with a slam that shook the house. She froze, momentarily paralyzed as she processed what was happening, and then felt the wind on her back.
She turned and peered into the master and saw that one of the two windows was open eight inches, causing the draft responsible for the creaking. The bedroom was otherwise empty except for the closed closet door and a neatly made bed. Opening the master must have created the breeze that had blown the guest bedroom door open. As if congratulating her for her deduction, it slammed again. The lock was either ill-fitting or out of adjustment – it wasn’t holding the door shut.
Now that she’d made enough noise to alert the entire neighborhood to her presence, she inched towards the closet – the final area in the master that could conceal anyone. Silver threw the door open, to be confronted with a tidy display of hanging shirts and pants. Her eyes took in the outline of a hatch in the ceiling leading to the attic, but the condition of the dust and cobwebs told her that it hadn’t been opened for a long time, so any possibility of an assailant hiding up there existed only in her mind.
The second bedroom door slammed again, and she turned to face it, ready to tackle the other possible upstairs hiding place.
Step by step she moved from the master to the rear bedroom, both hands steadying the Glock in a combat grip. When she reached the door she hesitated, listening, but detected nothing. Without warning she burst in, weapon sweeping the room. No closet, just a chest of drawers and a cheap armoire too small to hide in.
A sound echoed from downstairs.
Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she stiffened. Satisfied that the upstairs was secure, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and called Seth, but that call too went to voicemail. She left a terse message – a whispered advisement that she was in Howard’s house and to send backup immediately – that she believed the killer might still be inside, and that she was in pursuit.
Now the question was whether to wait, or go get her daughter. If anyone was inside, there were only two places they could be – the single-width garage or the basement. She hadn’t seen a car in the driveway, so she was guessing that if anyone was home, their car was in the garage. That left the basement.
Silver moved down the stairs, taking care to place her weight on the outer edges of the steps to minimize any noise. She’d learned that lesson on the ascent.
Once in the ground floor hall, she moved towards the front of the house and stopped at the only door along the span – the basement entry. There was little in the way of places she could hide, so she pushed the door open. A shaft of light stabbed down the concrete stairs to the dark expanse below. She listened, but didn’t hear any movement – just a dim hum of machinery in the gloom.
Groping along the wall with her left hand, she fumbled for a light switch. Her fingers felt the familiar shape and flicked it up.
Nothing happened.
After pausing for a moment, she reached into her purse and searched around until she found her keys. She had a miniature flashlight secured to the ring – a red anodized aluminum trinket she’d bought to make it easier to see her deadbolts at night. She flicked on the beam and winced as the keys jangled, then braced herself for the descent into the basement. The small beam of light seemed woefully inadequate, but it was better than nothing. She held the keys and flashlight in front of her and pointed her weapon down the stairs, carefully feeling with her feet for the next tread in the series. Step by step she moved lower, her pulse booming in her throat from the accumulated tension.
She was three-quarters down the stairs when something moved in the periphery of her vision. The door above her slammed shut. The next thing she knew, she was falling; a spike of white hot pain lanced up her spine, and her head slammed against a step with a crack. The last thing she registered was the sound of her now-useless gun hitting the concrete basement floor next to her flashlight, which extinguished with a pop as it skidded to a halt.
~ ~ ~
Silver regained consciousness to pain. Her back felt like someone had slammed her in the kidneys with a lead pipe, and her head shrieked in protest as she tried to open her eyes. Then she heard the most beautiful sound in the world and forced her lids wide.
“Mommy. Mommy. Don’t try to move,” Kennedy warned, her voice a distorted tremolo amid the ringing in Silver’s ears.
She tried to sit up, but the room swam dangerously. From the soft resistance beneath her, she concluded she was on a mattress with her head in her daughter’s lap. Something cold was being used as a pillow. Everything looked fuzzy, and she blinked a few times, trying to clear her vision. On the third try, she could make out the walls of a room – unpainted concrete.
“Sweetheart. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Silver asked, her voice a croak.
“I’m fine, Mom. But you aren’t. It took a while to stop the bleeding, and I have to hold the ice on your head, or it could start again.”
Her face leaned over Silver’s, a look of clear concern on it.
“Where did you get ice?”
“The man brought some after he put the butterflies on your head. He said that head wounds bleed a lot so you need to stay quiet.”
Silver stiffened. “The man?”
Just then the door rattled and then swung open. A figure stepped in from the darkness outside. The man who had been watching her from across the street. She could see that his hair was trimmed in a buzz cut and the mustache was gone, but it was him.
Howard Jarvis.
He approached the bed, and she flinched as she tried unsuccessfully to raise her arms. She saw the tie wrap around her
wrists a second later.
“I apologize for the drama. I didn’t know who was breaking in, so I had to take steps to defend myself. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you.” She struggled again, and he held up a hand. “Don’t. You’ll just make it worse. It took ten minutes to stop most of the bleeding. I’m afraid you have a concussion – hopefully no internal bleeding. I wouldn’t risk any sudden movements.” He held up a large freezer bag. “I brought some more ice. We need to keep the area cold for a while.”
She studied him. He looked ten years younger than his sixty years, but his face looked drawn and gray.
“You’re never going to get away with this,” she said, wincing with the effort.
He nodded. “No, I’m sure I won’t.”
Kennedy’s hand brushed her forehead, and he handed her the bag, taking the melted soggy one from her. The white towel wrapped around it was bloody, but not as bad as she supposed it could have been.
“The blow to your skull will require an MRI. So will your spine. And you’ll need some stitches in your scalp. I doubt you’ll be teaching any gymnastics classes in the near future,” he said, his tone conversational.
She needed to keep him talking until backup arrived. “So you’ve got me now. What’s your plan? And why did you kidnap my daughter?” she asked.
Most criminals, especially egocentric narcissists, which she assumed he was from his pursuit of media attention for his Regulator alias, wanted to brag to someone about their exploits. Motive was always a good place to start. When they were caught, they invariably had a story they had to tell – something that they needed their captor to understand. Only this time, she was the captive. She didn’t want to dwell on that for the moment.
“My plan? Why, can’t you guess? As to your daughter, that was an improvisation, and in hindsight, while a necessary one, it’s something I deeply regret for the anxiety it must have caused you both. If there had been any other way, I would have skipped it.”
Silver Justice Page 24
