Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6

by Susan Fleet

  “Showing off.” Vobitch said, and flashed his evil smile. “I bet that got your competitive juices going.”

  “Not really. I don’t get into dogfights with assholes like that. I told him I've used a SIG-Sauer for years, wasn't about to switch now.”

  “So now his wife and kids are missing and he wants you to find them. Wants you to put out a BOLO on her car, but he doesn't want to file a police report, afraid it might sully his reputation.”

  “Correct. But I'm worried about Donna. You know what can happen with domestic disputes.”

  Vobitch raked his fingers through his mane of silvery hair. “What was his demeanor?”

  “He seemed concerned about his daughter. Hell, if my daughter was missing, I'd be worried, too.” Worried about his ex-wife, too, even though they'd been divorced for years.

  Juliana came back with a metal tray, set a plate with a sliver of pie and a spoonful of ice cream in front of her husband. “Can I interrupt the powwow to talk to Frank for a minute?”

  Vobitch smiled. “Sure. The killers are miles away by now. Shoot the breeze while I enjoy my pie.”

  Topped with two scoops of ice cream, a big wedge of apple pie sat on Frank's plate. Circular stripes on the plate matched the autumn colors of the flowers in the vase. Everything Juliana did was artistic.

  As a young ballet dancer in New York, Juliana had left the theater one night and got mugged. Vobitch—then a young NYPD cop—rescued her, busted the thug and gave Juliana his phone number. A year later, the beautiful black ballerina and the stocky Jewish cop who loved classical music were married. Twenty years ago Juliana retired, Vobitch quit his NYPD job, and they moved to New Orleans. Tulane University had hired Juliana to teach dance, and NOPD had wasted no time hiring Vobitch, thanks to his extensive experience with NYPD Homicide.

  “How's Kelly?” Juliana asked. Last year Frank and Kelly had spent Thanksgiving here. Kelly and Juliana had become friends two years ago after Kelly got shot by a drug dealer.

  “She's in Chicago visiting her father and her brothers. She'll be back next week.”

  “Give her my best,” Juliana said.

  “I will,” he said. “The pie is fantastic, but you gave me too much.”

  With a conspiratorial smile, she said, “To prevent my sweet-loving husband from eating all of it. I'll be upstairs in the sewing room if you need anything.”

  After they finished their pie and ice cream, Vobitch said, “So what we got here, Frank? A kidnapping or a domestic homicide? The spouse is always the prime suspect. No ransom note.”

  “Not yet anyway.”

  “I don't trust Gates. He's got no use for cops, doesn't give a fuck about the crime rate.” Escalating into full tirade mode, Vobitch said, “He wants to cut the NOPD budget. He gets his way, they'll cut my position, put me back on the street. I hear he wants to run for U.S. Senate, paid a PR firm big bucks to manage his campaign. Maybe his wife got fed up and split.”

  “I hope that's all it is,” Frank said. “Before Donna got the anchor job, I did a few stand-ups with her at homicide scenes, but I don't know her that well. If she got pissed and split with the kids, she hasn't used her credit cards. Gates said he canceled them.”

  “To make sure she can't go far.” Vobitch flashed his evil smile. “But if she's been planning this, she might have a credit card her asshole husband doesn't know about.”

  “But where would she go? People might recognize her. She does the news every weekday.”

  “She any good?”

  “Very good, a smart blonde with big blue eyes and a 1000-watt smile. Great name, too. Donna Lee.” Vobitch gave him a blank look. He was into classical music and opera, not jazz. “It’s a jazz tune.”

  “Well, if Donna Lee turns up dead, Gates did it.” Vobitch ticked it off on his fingers. “Means, motive and opportunity. Gates had the means and opportunity. But what's the motive?”

  “Maybe he met another woman, wanted to avoid an expensive divorce. We've both seen cases where men killed their wives and tried to cover it up.”

  “True. And some of them got away with it.”

  “If Gates has big political ambitions, an ugly divorce could ruin his chances. Come to think of it, he reminds me a little bit of John Edwards.”

  Vobitch made his eyes go wide. “Ya think? Senator Gates has a nice ring to it. Hell, let's go for broke. How about President Gates? Maybe he's playing around, Donna Lee finds out and threatens to go public if he doesn't give her what she wants.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. What do you want to do, Frank?”

  “I want to talk to Donna's mother. Gates says she hates him.”

  Vobitch gave him a thin smile. “Already I like her. Okay, talk to her, see what she says. An informal chat, nothing official. Five homicides in District-8 the last two weeks, I can't let you spend official time on this. Not unless we get something concrete. Or Gates files a report.”

  Frank nodded. For the most part, he and Vobitch were on the same page. Catch the killers and put them in the slammer. But he had a bad feeling about this, a nagging feeling in his gut. A mother and two kids were missing. Not just any mother, a prominent TV anchorwoman.

  If Donna and the kids turned up dead, it would cause a shit storm.

  Was Hunter Gates a worried husband and father? Or a killer?

  CHAPTER 5

  2:15 PM

  Sam pulled up to the garage beside Darin's house, a one-story shotgun in Kenner. The shingles were faded, the gray paint flaking off, and the garage door was broken, wouldn't close all the way. The rear bumper and license plate of the Gates woman's car were visible. Fortunately, a bamboo fence shielded it from people in the adjacent house, and Darin had nailed navy blankets over the outside of the windows so the hostages couldn't see anything.

  He got out of his car and heard the drone of a low-flying jet about to land at Louis Armstrong Airport. He went up the front steps and tapped on the door. He had a key, but he didn't want to use it, not with Darin home.

  Dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, his black hair pulled into a ponytail, Darin opened the door and said, “About time. I gotta go buy lunch for my mother. I wanted to spend some time with her, but I can't because you're late and I gotta go to work.”

  Sam bit back a sharp retort. When Darin got his dander up, it was useless to argue. In the living room a cheap futon with tangled bedclothes faced a big-screen TV that took up most of one wall. A plate smeared with ketchup sat on a rickety table beside the futon.

  “Did you send the ransom note?” Sam said. He wanted to get the money and return the hostages.

  “Not yet, but I wrote it already. Before I go to work, I'll send it from a spoofed email account I set up. A million in cash and no cops.”

  “You said six million. Three apiece, you said.”

  “Right, but first we gotta make sure Gates didn't call the cops.”

  Bad news. In a quiet voice, Sam said, “We can't keep them cooped up here that long. The kids will get antsy. What if the girl throws a tantrum?”

  “I'll give her a slap. That'll shut her up.”

  Sam gritted his teeth. Darin didn't have kids and had no idea how to handle them. Or anyone else for that matter. Darin was smart about some things, clueless when it came to people.

  “That's not how you handle kids. We gotta keep them happy.”

  “Screw the kids. We need to make sure Gates didn't call the cops. I don't want to pick up the bucks and get jumped by a posse of cops.”

  “He'll want proof of life. He won't pay if he thinks they're dead.”

  “I know that,” Darin snapped. “You think I'm stupid? We take their picture holding the newspaper and I send the photos with the email.”

  “Okay. You got a camera?”

  “Jesus, Sam! Stop inventing problems! I gotta go see my mother.”

  Sam grabbed his arm and jerked him closer. “Keep your voice down. They're locked up in separate rooms bu
t they're not deaf. No names. The wife is right around the corner in the bedroom. You want me to tell her your name?”

  Darin's dark eyes turned hard and flat. “Take your fucking hand off me.”Fearing Darin would go off like a firecracker, Sam released his arm and said in a quiet voice, “No names. No loud voices. We need to wrap this up fast. We gotta feed them, take them to the toilet and keep them occupied. You don't know kids, but I do. Sooner or later one of 'em will flip out and raise a ruckus. And I can't keep coming here every night to babysit them. I got a wife and a disabled kid at home.”

  “Yeah? Well, I've got a sick mother in the hospital.”

  “There are people there to take care of her.”

  “We'll talk about it later after I get home from work.” Darin turned and went out the door.

  Sam watched him leave and realized he'd forgotten to ask Darin if he'd fed them. He went in the kitchen.

  Empty frozen macaroni-and-cheese packages sat on the counter. Darin was a pig, never cleaned up after himself, never took out the trash.

  What the hell would he feed the hostages for dinner? He began opening cabinets. Glass jars of water chestnuts and cans of bean sprouts in the first one. Useless. He opened the next one. Nothing there either, a tub of Maxwell House coffee, a box of tea bags and spice containers on one shelf, cans of ravioli and spaghetti on the shelf above it. Sidestepping to the refrigerator, he checked the freezer. A stack of Swanson's Hungry-Man TV dinners.

  Lord-a-mercy, no way would the kids eat those. He knew that for a fact.

  S.J. wouldn't eat anything with gravy on it. He liked Chicken Nuggets and French fries.

  His stomach burned with acid and his mind churned with problems. Feed the kids. Keep them happy and quiet. Keep Abby in the dark about where he was and what he was doing.

  Not for the first time, he regretted his involvement in this deal.

  If he didn't need money so bad, he'd bail out. But it was too late now.

  _____

  2:30 PM

  Frank parked in front of a rustic log cabin on a cul-de-sac in Luling. After his sit-down with Vobitch, he'd called Donna's mother, saying Hunter Gates had given him her phone number. Blanche Crochiere didn't seem thrilled about that. Her voice wary, she said, “Why?”

  Unwilling to discuss it on the phone, he said. “That's what I need to talk to you about.”

  “Okay. Now you've got me curious,” she'd said, and gave him directions to her home in Luling, twenty-five miles west of New Orleans on the west bank of the Mississippi River.

  Her cabin, built of reddish-brown Cypress logs, stood on a large lot surrounded by thick woods. The lawn was immaculate, no dead leaves, though there were plenty of trees, including a gorgeous red maple. Admiring the colorful flowers along the front walk, Frank went to the door.

  When Blanche opened it, he said, “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  She took him into her living room and held up a glass tumbler of amber liquid. “I'm drinking iced tea. Would you like some? Or some ice water?”

  “Ice water would be good, thanks.”

  “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing at a two-cushion flowered-print sofa. “Be right back.”

  Donna didn't look at all like her mother. An attractive woman in her fifties, Blanche Crochiere had hazel eyes, chiseled features and long dark hair streaked with gray. Judging by her tanned skin and trim figure, she spent plenty of time outdoors. Maybe she did her own landscaping.

  She came back with his ice water, handed it to him, and said, “Hunter Gates is a prick.”

  So much for preliminaries. With a faint smile, he said, “Tell me what you really think.”

  She uttered a husky laugh. “I usually do.”

  “You don't like him?”

  Blanche opened the window beside a well-worn leather recliner, shook a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboro Lights, lighted it and settled onto the recliner. “How do I loathe Hunter Gates? Let me count the ways. He's a gun nut. I hate guns. These NRA lunatics say guns don't kill people, people do, but that's bullshit. You're a cop. You know what the murder rate is in New Orleans.”

  “Indeed, I do, unfortunately.” He drank some ice water. “And?”

  “He's a smooth operator, gives you that big smile and acts like he's your best bud, but it's all for show.” She puffed her cigarette. “And he treats Robbie like dirt. Robbie's not his son.”

  Bingo. His thirty-five minute drive hadn't been a waste after all. Five minutes and he already had information that Gates had withheld from him. “Donna was married before?”

  “Yes.”

  Recalling the family photo—minus ten-year-old Robbie—Frank said, “He's Robbie's father?”

  Blanche tapped her cigarette on an ashtray, frowning, like she was debating about something. “Robbie's a terrific kid, very bright, very creative. When Donna moved to New Orleans after the divorce, I took care of him while she was working.”

  “What's his father's name?”

  Her lips tightened. “Nick Roberts.”

  “Where does he live?”

  She frowned. Puffed her cigarette. Sipped her iced tea. “Why all the questions, Frank?”

  Blanche was no dope and her question was perfectly legitimate. “Hunter went to a gun show party last night. When he came home at midnight, Donna and the kids were gone.”

  Expressionless, she said, “So that's why he called me this morning.”

  “They haven't been here?” If she hated Gates as much she claimed, she might have lied to him.

  “No.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Feel free to search the house if you want.”

  “I believe you. But Hunter seemed pretty worried. Aren't you?”

  Blanche shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Where would she go?”

  “Someplace safe, I hope. Be hell to pay if Hunter finds her. They probably had a fight and Donna took the kids somewhere to teach him a lesson. It wouldn't be the first time. She's probably on a chaise lounge at some motel, sipping a Daiquiri, watching the kids play in the pool.”

  Or maybe she's dead. Recalling the neatly folded pajamas on Robbie's bed.

  “What about Nick Roberts? Would she go back to him?”

  Blanche looked at him, incredulous. “Go back to Nick? Never.” Her eyes shifted away. “Don't bother talking to Nick. All he does is bad-mouth Donna.”

  Nick Roberts zoomed to the top of the list of people Frank wanted to talk to. “How did she meet Hunter Gates?”

  “The station sent her to cover some political function and this obnoxious guy started hitting on her. Hunter rescued her.” Blanche made a puke-face. “Big deal.”

  “Had he been married before?”

  “No. He said he'd been saving himself for the right woman.” Blanche rolled her eyes. “He wanted to have children, right away. Jesus, if that's not a pair of handcuffs, I don't know what is. Especially if you want a career. I didn't get started on mine until after my husband died.”

  “Recently? Or …?”

  Blanche looked at him, a flat level gaze. “Donna's father was an alcoholic. I met him at a Brown University keg party. That should have been the tip-off, but I was young and stupid. We graduated in 1975, got married and I got pregnant right away. I was a math major.” She flashed a mischievous grin. “They say girls can't do math, but I graduated magna cum laude.”

  Frank gestured at the framed art on one wall of the room, colorful swirls in various shapes and patterns on a black background. “Are those fractals?”

  “Yes. I’m no Andy Warhol, but that's how I make my living, creating and selling fractal art. You like them?”

  “They're gorgeous. What happened to your husband?” He didn't know Donna that well, and victimology was often his best tool. Understand the victim, you might solve the crime.

  “Ken was a financial analyst. He made big bucks, enough to indulge his favorite pastimes, drinking and gambling. We lived in Westerly, Rhode Island. Every weekend, he'd take
a bus to Atlantic City. Free booze and the gambler's rush. When he won.”

  Frank filed that away for later. Donna had an alcoholic, compulsive-gambler father.

  “But he doted on Donna. She was his tennis protégé. Six years old and she wins a tournament for kids at Ken's tennis club. She was tiny, but Ken taught her how to play the angles. You know, hit it where they ain't. Ken was good at playing the angles.” Blanche puffed her cigarette. “When he was sober, Ken was a good father. When he was drunk things could get ugly and as Donna got older, that happened a lot. She looked like him, though. He was a handsome Swede, blond hair, blue eyes.”

  “What about later? Did she have boyfriends?”

  “Plenty in high school, but nothing serious. She'd already decided she was going to be the next Jessica Savitch. She was class valedictorian. Boston University gave her a full scholarship.”

  Frank was no arm-chair shrink, but he knew many children of alcoholic parents had destructive tendencies: eager to please, perfectionists, Type-A workaholics driven to succeed.

  Blanche put out her cigarette and lit another, chain-smoking now. “Ken missed her terribly and started drinking more than ever. Her freshman year, I went to the train station to pick her up for Christmas break. When we got home, we found him dead on the bathroom floor. He'd fallen and hit his head on the tub. Needless to say, that wasn't a great Christmas.”

  “I'm sure it wasn't. I'm sorry you had to go through that. How did Donna take it?”

  Blanche didn't answer right away, puffing her cigarette. “Donna always kept her feelings to herself, even in high school. We didn't talk much. I mean, we talked, but …”

  “She didn't confide in you.”

  “Me or anyone else. She was totally focused on a television career. The summer after Ken died, she changed her name to Donna Lee. Lee is her middle name. She said she didn't want to be Donna Swanson anymore.”

  Sad story. To change the subject, Frank said, “How did you wind up in Luling?”

  Blanche smiled. “I grew up here. Crochiere is my maiden name. My father was Cajun. My mother was French. She loved Tennessee Williams, especially Streetcar Named Desire. That's why she named me Blanche.”