Storm Season

by Erica Spindler

  It wasn’t a question but an affirmation. M.C. smiled grimly. “Thanks.”

  “Detective Riggio?”

  She looked over her shoulder at Nan, the unit secretary. “Messages?”

  “Your pizza.”

  “I didn’t order a pizza.”

  “It came for you an hour and a half ago. A Mama Riggio’s. Maybe your brothers sent it?”

  Her three youngest brothers, Tony, Max and Frank, did that sometimes. Sent over a pie when the restaurant was slow or they knew she was in the middle of an intense investigation and needed nourishment.

  “I was afraid to leave it on your desk or in the lunch room. Figured it’d be gone before you got back.”

  “Thanks, Nan." She retrieved the pie.

  “Detective Riggio?" M.C. looked back. The woman’s face puckered with concern. “I heard about . . . your friend and . . . I hope everything turns out okay.”

  A lump formed in her throat. Unable to speak, she just nodded then walked away.

  The lunch room was deserted. Usually just the thought of one of her brother’s pies had her mouth watering. Today, nothing. Though she had no desire to eat, her body needed the fuel.

  She flipped open the box. And caught her breath. A smiley face. Made out of pepperoni.

  It grinned up at her, mocking. Somehow sinister. Gotcha! it seemed to say. Joke’s on you!

  Her brothers didn’t mean it that way. Even if they were three sadistic sons-of-bitches who hated her guts, they didn’t know about Erik. Sal had put a gag order on the case. Erik was an important man in Rockford, from an important family. His disappearance would be big news.

  But the timing was like a kick in the gut anyway.

  She stared at it, a sick feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. She opened her phone and dialed Mama Riggio’s. The hostess answered. “Hey Judy. One of my ass kissing brothers around?”

  “They’re in a meeting. And judging by the volume of their discussion, interrupting would be a very bad idea.”

  They did that. Loved each other to death and wanted to kill each other at the same time.

  “Just wanted to thank them for the pizza they sent over this afternoon.”

  “Wasn’t that cute?”

  Not quite how she’d describe it.

  “Adorable,” she said.

  “But it wasn’t from them.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “They didn’t order it.”

  A chill moved over her. “Who did, Judy?”

  “It was a phone order. He said he was a friend of yours and wanted to brighten your day. Hold on--”

  M.C. heard her shuffling through the order book.

  “Here it is. Mr. Foo Beech.”

  M.C. frowned. “Foo Beech? Could you spell that?”

  “Sure. F-U-" Judy stopped, obviously realizing Mr. Beech had been sending M.C. more than a pizza.

  Fuck you, Bitch.

  It was happening again.

  M.C.’s knees buckled. She sat hard, thoughts racing.

  “God, I’m so sorry . . . It was a phone order--”

  Someone wanted to hurt her. They were doing it through Erik.

  “I never would have--”

  Her fault. He was in danger, maybe dead. Because of her.

  Kitt entered the break room. “I heard you had a Mama Riggio’s--" She stopped short. “What happened?”

  M.C. motioned to the pizza box.

  “--believe me, M.C. I never--”

  She cut her off. “It’s okay, Judy. I know you wouldn’t." From the corners of her eyes, she saw Kitt lift the box’s lid; heard her soft exhalation of breath.

  M.C. refocused on Judy. “How did he pay for the pie? Credit card?”

  “He would have had to . . ." She sounded rattled. “I can’t think. I--”

  “It’s okay, take all the time you need."

  “Hold on, let me check." It took only a moment. “No, a gift card.”

  “Do you keep a record of who purchases the cards?”

  “No. Besides, it wasn’t one of ours. One of those pre-paid VISA gift cards.”

  Outmaneuvered. Dammit!

  “Thanks, Judy. Look, do me a favor. Don’t bother my brothers with this right now. It’s nothing, okay? And you know how they get.”

  Judy did know. She had five brothers and their protective streaks ran a mile wide. Never mind that she carried a gun and could take down a man twice her size, nobody messed with their sister.

  M.C. ended the call and looked at Kitt. “Whoever took Erik did it to punish me.”

  “You got all that from a smiley face pizza?”

  “Yeah. Sent to me compliments of Mr. F-U-Beech." She gave Kitt a moment to process, then went on. “A phone order, paid for with a gift card.”

  “Which they keep no records of.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You don’t know for certain--”

  “A couple hours after Erik disappears, I receive this with the message Fuck You, Bitch. What do you think?”

  “Someone you busted. Testified against.”

  She nodded. “Someone with an ax to grind. Recently released or paroled.”

  “Who comes to mind?” Kitt asked.

  “Frickin’ everyone.”

  “Okay, let’s slow this down. Mama Riggio’s have caller ID?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You find out. If they don’t, we get the number through the carrier. I’m sure Mama Riggio’s will have a record of the exact time that order came in. In the meantime, I’ll bring Baker and Canataldi up to speed.”

  M.C. was already dialing. “I’ll access the database, see if any of my angry scumbags have hit the street recently.”

  6:10 p.m.

  MAMA RIGGIO’S DID, INDEED, have caller ID. In addition, their system logged the number of every phone order.

  The Smiley Face pizza number belonged to a nasty piece of work named Dickey Larson. An all-around dirtbag. In and out of jail all his life. Drug abuser, wife beater, cheat and thief. Last go-around, M.C. had convinced his wife to testify against him, then loaned her the money to relocate. Dickey hadn’t made a secret of being mighty pissed off.

  A few minutes ago they’d hauled his ass in for questioning; Baker had handed M.C. the honor and she was chomping at the bit to get started.

  She faced the slimy little worm across the interview table. “You like pizza, Dickey?”

  He smirked. “It’s all right.”

  “Like Mama Riggio’s?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

  “How about me, Dickey. How do you feel about me?”

  He couldn’t hide the hatred burning in his eyes. She could feel the animosity radiating off him in waves. “No feelings at all.”

  “At your trial you called me a bitch. You said you’d make me pay.”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “Isn’t it true that you blame me for your wife leaving you?”

  “Good riddance.”

  “You ever hear the name Erik Sundstrand?”

  “Nah.”

  Not even a blink. “You sure? Sundstrand’s a pretty recognizable name around here.”

  “I’ve heard the name Sundstrand before. But I don’t know that dude.”

  “You order a pizza today?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really?” She flipped up the lid. “This pizza?”

  Another smirk. Turd couldn’t help himself. “Since when did ordering a pizza become a crime?”

  “So you did?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Not whatever, Mr. Beech. Why did you send me this?”

  “Who’s Mr. Beech? I don’t know nobody by that name.”

  She cocked her head. “You’re not very smart, are you?”

  That pissed him off. She saw it and smiled. “That’s why you keep getting caught. Stupid.”

  His face flamed red. “Shut up.”

  “Just a big, stupid
loser. Isn’t that right, Dickey? You’re just a--”

  “Fuck you, bitch!”

  She nodded and sat back in her chair. “Now that’s exactly what I’m talking about. That’s a threat. Sending the cop who busted you that message is not how you stay out of trouble.”

  There was no trace of the smirk now. “It’s a happy face. It was supposed to make you smile.”

  “And the F-U Bitch. Was that supposed to make me smile, too?”

  He didn’t respond and she went on. “You know what else is stupid? Kidnapping somebody. Really stupid.”

  “What does that have to do with me? Nuthin’.”

  “Aggravated kidnapping carries up to a thirty-year sentence. For a repeat offender like you, the maximum would definitely be in order.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I convinced your wife to press charges against your ugly ass.”

  “And I did my time. Every damned day of it!”

  “What did you think about while you were in? About your wife? The fact that I convinced her to press charges? That she testified against you?”

  He didn’t reply and she went on. “You promised you’d hurt me. That you’d make me pay.”

  “It’s a fucking pizza! What’s the big deal?”

  “You told me--” she read what he’d shouted after the verdict, as they led him away. “Wait bitch. Just wait. I’m going to make you pay.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Isn’t that what you said?”

  “I was pissed off. What would you have said?”

  “I’m more interested in your actions. You wanted to hurt me. You blamed me for your wife leaving.”

  “The heat of the moment.”

  “Where were you this morning?”

  “Home.”

  “Alone?”

  “My wife left me. Remember?”

  “Did you arrange a meeting with Erik Sundstrand?”

  “I told you I don’t know the dude!”

  “You lured him out to Anna Page Park? And once he was there, you abducted him.”

  “Holy shit!” He jumped to his feet. “No. No way! I sent you a pizza. That’s all. I wanted to mess with you, that’s all! I swear to God! And I want my fucking lawyer!”

  “M.C.? Kitt?”

  Baker. He motioned them out to the hallway. “Got Sundstrand’s phone tracks. The last number he received doesn’t match Larson’s.”

  7:15 p.m.

  “IT DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING, Kitt,” M.C. said, minutes later. They stood in the observation room, watching as Larson alternately paced and sat slumped in the chair, head in his hands. Baker and Canataldi had gone for a burger while they waited for the Public Defender. “He used a pre-paid, throw away cell phone to contact Erik. So there wouldn’t be a trail.”

  “So why didn’t he use it to order the pizza?”

  “Because he’s a dumb shit.”

  “Exactly. He’s not a thinker, M.C. He’s a bully. I don’t think he’s your guy. This is too big for him.”

  M.C. shook her head in denial of Kitt’s words. “He’s the one. He has to be.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The pizza, the same day Erik disappears? C’mon, Kitt, it’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “Coincidences happen. They do, M.C.”

  “Not this time.” She curved her hands into fists. “What about his threat to make me pay?”

  “How many times have perps threatened you?”

  Too many to count. “He has Erik.” She heard the desperation in her voice; she knew Kitt must also.

  “Maybe you’re right. This pizza stunt violates his parole, so he’s not going anywhere. It gives us time.”

  “But what about Erik’s time? How much does he have?”

  “Detectives?” Nan stuck her head in the door. “Public Defender’s arrived.”

  M.C. started for the door; Kitt stopped her. “The team’s decided you should observe this time.”

  She opened her mouth to protest. Try reasoning with Kitt, beg if she had to. The effort would be wasted, M.C. acknowledged. This time the decision was bigger than her partner.

  “You’ve got to break him, Kitt. If he knows where Erik is--”

  “We’ll find out.” Kitt squeezed her hand. “I promise.”

  M.C. couldn’t sit. She paced. Waiting for them to begin. Feeling the clock ticking. Bringing the storm closer. Putting more distance between her and Erik.

  The players assembled in the interview room. Exchanged greetings. Screw the pleasantries, she wanted to scream. Make the bastard talk. Anything. Do anything.

  At her hip, her cell phone vibrated. “Detective Riggio,” she answered, gaze on the video monitor.

  “Mary Catherine Riggio?” the man asked.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled. He had her full attention now. “Yes?”

  “Bill McCormack. SunCorp, COO. Erik introduced us at the Christmas party.”

  The image of the man--short and balding, Harry Potter glasses, a sharp gaze that missed nothing--popped into her head. His voice sounded strange.

  “Of course,” she said. “I assume you’re calling for an update but unfortunately, I have nothing to report.”

  “It’s not--” He cleared his throat. “I do. Have something to report.”

  His voice shook badly. She grabbed the back of the chair for support, waiting for the rest. And for the moment her world crumbled beneath her feet.

  “A Fed-Ex envelope,” he continued. “Waiting on my doorstep, when I got home tonight. In it was--” He choked back what sounded like a sob. “Erik’s driver’s license. And a bloody paper towel.”

  8:25 p.m.

  DESPITE THE WIND AND blowing snow, M.C. made it to McCormack’s east side home in record time. She had simply reacted. Left HQ without a word to anyone. She’d rather have Kitt with her, but had feared the team would shut her out.

  He was waiting and opened the door the moment she reached it. She stepped quickly inside, snapping it shut behind her.

  “Where are they?” she asked.

  He led her to the kitchen. He had laid the three items--envelope, license and paper towel--on the kitchen counter. She gazed at them, a metallic taste in her mouth. Fear. Deep and ice cold.

  Her voice, however, was steady when she asked, “How much did you handle them?”

  “I didn’t know I shouldn’t,” he said, tone anguished. “The envelope was propped by the door . . . it’d been a long, upsetting day. I’ve been, we’ve all been so worried-- I grabbed it on my way inside, then opened it.”

  He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t until I pulled out the . . . contents that I took a closer look at the envelope and saw--”

  “That it didn’t have a shipping label.”

  He nodded. “I didn’t know what else to do, so I called you.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “What does it mean?”

  She had a pretty good idea. One she couldn’t yet voice. She needed to steady herself first, slow her heart, tamp back the panic.

  McCormack’s house phone rang. He looked at her, fear racing into his eyes.

  “You need to get that,” she said softly.

  He shook his head. It rang again.

  She crossed to the device, noticed it had a speaker option. Time would run out. It always did.

  It rang again. M.C. snatched up the device, handed it to him then pressed the speaker button.

  “Hello,” he answered, voice sounding strangled.

  “Mr. McCormack?”

  “Yes?”

  “I see you got your delivery.”

  “Where’s Erik?”

  M.C. closed her eyes in an attempt to listen with all her senses. To pick up something, in the man’s voice or from the background noise, that would lead to her to Erik.

  “That’s a stupid question, McCormack. The smart question is, how do you get him back?”

  “How do I get him back?”

  “Seven hundred-fifty thousand d
ollars. Cash. Tomorrow at noon.”

  “But I can’t get--”

  “Yes, you can. And you will. Or Mr. Sundstrand dies.”

  “Wait! Where do I--”

  “Instructions will come. And, Mr. McCormack? No police. That would be very dangerous for Sundstrand.”

  10:50 p.m.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME, M.C. truly understood the ‘No cops’ dilemma. Before, she’d been arrogant. Law enforcement was essential. The only way to catch the perp and save the victim. Heeding the kidnapper’s demands was, frankly, stupid. And an almost certain death sentence for the victim.

  When it was someone you cared about, that arrogance became gut-wrenching fear. Of making a misstep. Causing a worst-case-scenario.

  Faced with the threat of harm to Erik, she’d hesitated. Her, a cop. She had even considered taking on the kidnappers by herself. Wiring the phone, making the drop, all of it. Dangerous thoughts. More arrogance.

  So she had made the call. The team had arrived at McCormack’s moments ago.

  “Seven hundred-fifty grand,” Kitt was saying. “Why that amount? Sundstrand’s worth millions.”

  “Small time hoods,” Baker offered. “Not so bright.”

  “Or very bright,” McCormack said.

  They all looked at him.

  “I can write a check for up to that amount, my signature only. Anything more requires Erik’s as well.”

  The group went silent. Kitt broke it first. “Not a guess then. They knew.”

  “Someone on the inside.”

  “Ex-employee? Family member maybe?”

  M.C. looked at McCormack. “Who else has access to that information?”

  “Any number of people. From department heads to our bank rep.”

  M.C. jumped to her feet. “Dammit!”

  “We’ve got another problem,” McCormack said. “A local bank doesn’t keep that kind of cash on hand. It’s going to have to come from a federal reserve bank.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me?”

  “I wish I was, Detective.”

  “I’d bet my right nut that’s something they didn’t know.” Canataldi looked at McCormack. “Where’s the nearest federal reserve?”

  “Beloit.”

  “Wisconsin?” M.C. sat back down. “They’re ankle deep in snow already.”

  “And the bank doesn’t even open until nine.”