by Jeff Shelby
“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “But we've got it covered. We've got plans if we need them. She'll be safe.”
I started to ask what the plans were, then thought better of it. He seemed to know what he was doing, and I hadn’t heard anything off or concerning in Elizabeth's answers. I needed to focus on Anchor and Lauren.
“Alright,” I said. “Thank you. And I told her I might call again later tonight.”
“No worries. Just use the same routine and we'll get back to you.”
“Will do. Thanks again.”
“Later.”
The call ended and I dropped the phone on the seat.
I wanted to feel good that things seemed fine in Arizona. I wanted to feel good that Elizabeth sounded okay. I wanted to feel good that Carter and his friend seemed to know what they were doing and were vigilant.
But I couldn't.
All I could think about was Lauren.
TWENTY ONE
I returned the rental at the airport in Charleston, then used the burner phone to find a flight to Minneapolis that left a little over an hour later. I purchased the ticket online and then went inside and found a kiosk to print out the boarding pass. I checked the gun case at the counter, got through security, and then stood on the concourse for a moment.
Every instinct I had told me to panic. Everything was careening in a direction I couldn't control. The helplessness was stifling and a large part of me was numb, almost to the point of paralysis. I wanted to drop to my knees and scream. I wanted to lash out at anything and everything around me. My life was crumbling to pieces and no one noticed, no one cared. Not the guy in a business suit, speaking rapidly into his Bluetooth as he sidestepped me. Not the group of flight attendants pulling their roller bags behind them, laughing and talking about their plans for the night. Not the man who looked close to my age, traveling with a woman who, if I squinted my eyes just so, bore a striking resemblance to my ex-wife.
But I needed to focus. Panicking would do nothing for me or for Lauren. So I closed my eyes, took a few deep, calming breaths, and focused on what I could do.
I bought a bottle of water and several protein bars. I forced down two of the three bars and drank half the bottle of water. I used the bathroom and took the long way to my gate, walking to stretch my legs and get a little exercise. When I got on the plane, I closed my eyes and counted backwards from one hundred, over and over again, trying to steady my breathing and calm my racing heart. I had no idea when I was going to be able to rest again and I couldn't afford to walk off the plane physically and mentally worn down. I shut down every mental image and just focused on the numbers, the backward succession, until a sense of calm overtook me.
I didn't open my eyes again until we touched down in Minnesota.
Minnesota seemed the most logical place to me. It was where Anchor lived and where much of my interaction with him took place. Even if Lauren wasn't there, I figured my best shot at getting to her was through Anchor and the best place to start with him was in Minnesota.
I got off the plane, located the case on the baggage carousel, took the tram to the transportation center, and rented another car.
I punched Anchor's number in my phone as I left the airport, but got no answer. I wasn't surprised. He wasn't going to make it easy on me. And I had no idea where he was. Any time we'd met in the past, we'd done so in public places. I now knew why. I had no way to get to him.
But I did think I knew someone who might be able to help me.
The highways and streets were still familiar to me and I drove north from the airport via 62 and 35W. The downtown buildings were already glowing with evening lights but the trees that lined the freeway were still bare-branched and pockets of snow were still visible on the shoulder and in the ditches. I found my way into the Linden Hills neighborhood by memory and, after one wrong turn, located the apartment complex I'd once stayed in. I parked the rental just outside the door of the apartment I'd called home for a few days. I exited the car and the cold air rushed into my lungs. I wasn’t dressed for a Minnesota spring. I hurried up the sidewalk and knocked on a door a few doors down from the apartment I’d stayed in.
Isabel Balzone took a step back when she opened her door and saw me. “Mr. Tyler. My goodness, this is a surprise.”
“I'm sorry to just show up like this,” I said. “But do you have a minute?”
She nodded, a puzzled look on her face, and waved me into the apartment.
Isabel was the one who'd initially asked me to locate Peter Codaselli's son, Marc. He'd run away from home and she piloted an organization that took him in. He'd ended up working for her and when he disappeared, she was concerned. In exchange for helping her, she'd introduced me to several people who ended up helping me find Elizabeth. Including Anchor.
She shut the door behind me. “I can honestly say you were the last person I expected to see at my door. How are you?”
“I'm okay,” I lied. “I'm sorry for the intrusion.”
She smiled, a genuine one that reached her pale, blue eyes. “You're not an intrusion.” She brushed a strand of dark hair from her face. “I read about your daughter. How is she?”
“She's good,” I said. “She's very good.”
She nodded, still smiling. “When I saw the story that you'd found her, I literally sat down and cried. I know you always held out hope, but I just didn't...well, you know how it goes.”
“I do,” I answered. “We got lucky. Elizabeth is doing very well.”
“I'm so happy to hear that,” she said. She gestured toward her kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? It’s pretty cold out there. I have some bars I baked the other day. Caramel chocolate chip.”
“No, thank you,” I said. I hated that I was being brusque, but I didn’t have time for pleasantries. “And I really can't stay. But I'm hoping you can help me.”
The puzzled look returned. “With?”
“I'm wondering if you have any contact info for Marc Codaselli.”
She was just as surprised as when she opened the door. “For Marc? Why?”
“I don’t know if he can help me,” I told her. “But I'm not sure what my other options are.”
She moved to her sofa and sat down on the edge. She looked at me, her arms folded across her chest, waiting for me to explain. I owed her at least that, so I sat across from her in an old rocking chair and told her why I was there. I didn’t tell her the grisly details about Dennison and what I’d been forced to do, but I told her about Anchor taking Lauren because of a debt I hadn’t paid to him.
She leaned back in the sofa, shaking her head. “Oh my goodness, Joe. I'm so sorry.”
“Me, too. But I'm working against the clock here, and I'd like to speak with Marc to see if he can give me some idea as to where I can find John Anchor.” I paused. “I don't know if he will or if he can, but I need to try.”
She thought for a moment. “I don't know if he can help you or not, Joe. I know that he mended fences with his father before he died, but Marc was still staying away from the family business. At least as far as I know. And I'm not sure whether he'd be willing to betray his father's trust, even with Mr. Codaselli gone.”
“I need to try,” I said. I made eye contact with her, then held her gaze. “I don't know what else to do.”
She nodded, then stood and walked over to the dining room table. She reached into a leather backpack and pulled out her phone. She tapped at the screen, then held the phone out to me.
I took it from her and examined the screen. There was both a phone number and an address for Marc Codaselli. I took out my own phone and typed the information into my contacts, then handed her phone back.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it very much.”
“Do you need a place to stay?” she asked. “I have an open apartment. Different one than before, but it’s essentially the same..”
I shook my head. “No. I need to go find Lauren. But thank you.”
She walke
d me to the door. “I wish there was more I could do, Joe. I'm sorry.”
I held up my phone. “You've done enough. Thank you.”
She nodded. “If I can do anything else, please don't hesitate to ask.” She smiled, a thin wry smile. “Mr. Codaselli made a generous donation to Run Home on Marc's behalf after you found him. I actually have an office now, along with several part-time employees that I can pay.”
“That's great,” I said. I knew my voice lacked enthusiasm but my words were sincere. She did good work with her organization and she deserved the donation from Codaselli.
“It is,” she said. “And it wouldn't have happened without your help. So, thank you.”
I flinched at her words. I didn’t deserve to be thanked, not after what I’d done and the danger I’d put my family in. But she didn’t know any of that. She didn’t know why it was so important for me to find Lauren, or what kind of person Anchor really was.
She didn’t know what kind of person I was.
Isabel touched my arm. “And good luck.”
TWENTY TWO
Marc Codaselli's address was in a brand new condo building next to Target Field. It was in the middle of a cluster of other new-looking buildings that took advantage of the proximity to the sports complexes and the downtown area. I found a parking spot on the street across from the building and got out.
I hurried toward the building in an attempt to get out of the wind. It was six stories tall and made to look like an old warehouse, but the elaborate iron rails on the decks and large glass windows gave its newness away. I managed to catch a twenty-something guy on his way out and slipped through the main door and into the lobby. I took the elevator to the sixth floor and found Codaselli's door at the end of the hallway. I hesitated for just a moment, then knocked.
The door opened and Marc Codaselli stood there, frozen, as recognition flashed through his eyes. “Mr. Tyler.”
“Hi, Marc,” I said, holding out my hand. “How are you?”
“I'm...alright,” he said, shaking my hand. “I...I'm sorry. I'm surprised to see you.”
“I know. I'm sorry. Can I have a minute of your time?”
He stared at me for a moment, then stepped out of the way so I could come in.
The interior of the apartment was clean and spartan. The floors were hardwood, the furniture modern and black. Art that made no sense to me hung on the walls and a massive flat screen clung to the largest wall in the living room. An iPad and a laptop were spread out on the glass coffee table next to a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew and a couple of magazines.
“I just heard about your father,” I said. “I'm sorry.”
Marc ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Yeah. Thank you. It was...rough. At the end, anyway.” He gestured at the black leather sofa. “Have a seat. Please.”
I didn’t want to sit. I wanted to talk and get information and go. But I knew I needed to tread lightly, knew that Marc really was my only hope. So I sat down on the end of the sofa, the leather groaning beneath my weight. He sat down at the opposite end.
“Isabel told me you found your daughter,” he said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I said. I knew the word was stilted, knew I should add more, but I wasn’t there to talk about Elizabeth.
“You live in California, right?” His brow furrowed, as if he were trying to remember. “Not Minnesota?”
I nodded. “Right. San Diego.”
“But you're here,” he said.
“I am,” I said. I took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I found my daughter in large part because of your father. He offered me some assistance and it absolutely helped me find Elizabeth. Without him, I don't think I would've located her.”
He nodded, listening.
“Specifically, it was John Anchor who helped me,” I continued. “Your father was grateful enough to me for finding you that he offered any help he could if I needed it. Turned out, I did. And that got us on the right track.” I paused. “But then I needed some more help and I went back to John because I thought he could get me what I needed.”
Something changed in Marc's body language. He sat up a little straighter and tension seemed to roll into his shoulders. He started to reach for his soda, then stopped and leaned back into the sofa again.
He looked at me. “And then you owed him, right?” There was bitterness in his voice.
I was glad that he saw where I was going. “Yeah.”
“And then he wanted you to do something shitty,” Marc said, his mouth twisting into a sour frown. “To settle your debt with my father.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He shook his head, but I couldn't tell what he meant by it, whether he thought I was stupid or something else.
“So, what?” he asked. “You didn't do it? Or don't want to?”
“More complicated,” I said. “I lied to him about doing it. And he found out.”
He sucked in a breath. “Oh, I'll bet that thrilled him.”
“It didn't,” I said. “And, right now, he's leveraged me pretty good.”
Marc shook his head again. “Big surprise.”
“But I did what he asked,” I said, the words bringing up bile in my throat. I swallowed it back down, the acrid taste lingering in my mouth. “I kept my end of the deal.”
“Do I even wanna know?” he asked, eyeing me.
“No.”
“At least you're honest.”
“He has my wife,” I said. “My daughter's mother. He took her when he found out I hadn't kept my end of the bargain. Told me to go do it and I'd get her back.” I laid my hands flat on my jeans. “So I did it. And now he's still fucking with me.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “I'm sorry.”
“Me, too.” I took another deep breath, exhaled. “So I'm here to ask for help. I have no idea what your relationship is with him, and I know it's possible that I may have just screwed myself completely if you're tight with him.” I paused. “But I don't think your father would've signed off on this. I know who he was and what he did, but this feels...different. Am I wrong about that?”
Marc leaned forward and picked up his drink. He drained the contents of the bottle, then stared at it for a few moments. He set it back down on the table and looked at me.
“There's no fucking way my dad would've signed off on that kind of shit,” he said, his eyes angry. “It's all Anchor.”
TWENTY THREE
“My dad and I didn't get along for a long time,” Marc Codaselli said, easing back into the sofa. “A long time. I think you know that. I ran away because I just didn't want to be associated with what he was doing.”
I nodded. I remembered that. Peter had wanted Marc to take over the family business, but Marc had no interest. The gap between them grew until it became impassible. Peter, though, finally reached a point in his life, no doubt brought on by his impending mortality, where he just wanted to try and build some form of a relationship with his son before it was too late. Marc was wary when I'd found him, but I think he'd shared some of his father's same feelings about healing before it was too late.
“But when I came back,” Marc continued, “I tried to be open-minded. Isabel helped me with that. And for like the first time ever, my dad and I found a way to get along.”
“That's good,” I said. My knee started bouncing. I wasn’t interested in small talk; I just wanted to get to Anchor so I could find Lauren.
“It was,” Marc said, nodding. “And Anchor didn't care for it.”
“Why not?”
“I guess he saw me as a threat,” he said, frowning. “Like I was going to be the prodigal son or something and then take over after years of my saying I didn't want to take over.” He shook his head. “So he tried to marginalize me.”
“How?”
“Just stupid shit,” he said. He spun the empty bottle in his hands. “Not inviting me to dinners that my father wanted me at. Making sure my father wasn't available when I wanted to see him. Jus
t dumb, petty shit like that. It didn't really work, but I felt it.” He shrugged. “And I tried to talk to my dad about it, but he trusted Anchor implicitly. And not that he shouldn't have. With what my father did, he needed a guy like Anchor watching his back. I get it.” He paused and shook his head again. “But there's no way my dad would've been alright with something like this. No way. I know my dad did a lot of shitty things, probably way more than I even know about, but I don't think for a second he would've done something like this. He had his own code, his own set of rules and as bizarre as they were, as much as they didn't make a whole lot of moral sense to me, he wouldn't have done this.” He shook his head. “No. This is totally Anchor.”
“I agree,” I said. At least my gamble about Marc had been correct. “When I brought that up, he was quick to point out that your father had just passed.”
“Oh, I'll bet he was,” Marc said, smiling but not meaning it. “He's had free reign since he's been gone. And he’s still doing his best to screw me.”
“I'm sorry,” I said.
He waved a hand in the air. “Only so much he can do. I don't want any part of the business, so that isn't an issue. But he's making it difficult with assets and his estate.” He eyed me. “My goal all along has been to give away much of what my father made. In my head, it will somehow make up for all the horrible shit he did. But Anchor's making it difficult.”
I stilled my knee and shifted on the sofa. I did feel empathy, but the clock was ticking, and for me, it was like a time bomb. I needed to get moving.
“Can you help me get to him?” I said. “I don't mean overtly. You don't have to be directly involved. But I need to get to him, and I assume it's not an easy thing to do.”
“That's no lie,” Marc said. “And especially with my father gone and he's running the show here, he's probably more paranoid than normal.” He looked at me. “He's very careful. Anchor may be an awful human being, but he's incredibly smart.”
“I know.” I held his gaze. “And I need to be honest with you. I'll probably kill him when I find him.”
The words felt strange coming out of my mouth. I'd been physically ill since killing Dennison, but I felt nothing when talking about killing Anchor. There was no twinge, no anxiety, no nothing.
