by Susan Fleet
Vobitch sipped his Glenlivet. “When he ran for city council, seemed like he was squeaky clean, no mudslinging from the other candidates. Not that I pay much attention to politicians. Most of them are lying about something.”
“He said if we called the FBI and something happened to Emily, he'd crucify us.”
Vobitch's eyes widened then grew cold. “Fucking asshole. You think the ransom note is legit?”
“The email was sent from a spoofed account, be hard to trace it. Could be a smokescreen. Maybe he killed Donna and sent the kids to Miami Beach with the nanny. Either way, I don't like it. Two kids are missing. The boy's ten, the girl is five.”
“Be hell to pay if we screw this one up.” Vobitch took out his cellphone. “Hold on while I call Patrick Leary and feel him out. He's an Assistant U.S. District Attorney down here, but I knew him years ago when he was a D.A. in Manhattan.”
Parched after his recitation, Frank guzzled some Heineken and glanced at the TV above the bar. A Saint’s game was on. Football was big in New Orleans, but basketball was his game. He'd played point guard in high school and college, then with a Boston PD team. Now he played on one of the NOPD teams.
Vobitch spoke into a cellphone dwarfed by his meaty fist. “Patrick,” he said, “Morgan Vobitch. How the hell are ya?” And after a pause, “Not bad. Same old, same old. Are you home?” Waggling his eyebrows at Frank and saying, “A Lions Club meeting? What, you gonna run for mayor?”
Enjoying the show, Frank watched him mime Patrick's reactions, pulling a sad-face, then barking a curt laugh. “Not me. You Irish guys are the politicians. I'm a Jew-bastard from Queens. The rednecks down here would dump shit all over me. Listen, I need to run a situation by you. A prominent New Orleans citizen called one of my homicide detectives this morning. His wife and kids are missing. My guy, being a savvy detective, advised him to call the FBI, but Mr. Bigshot said he'd rip him a new asshole if he did.”
Frank grinned, amused by the colorful language his boss used to embellish a story.
“No, no, no,” Vobitch said. “My guy's not his buddy. He met him at a social gathering, you know, a Lions Club meeting or something.”
Frank barely suppressed a laugh. A shooting range morphing into a Lions Club meeting?
“If we call in the FBI and there's a fuckup—” Frowning, Vobitch listened during an extended interval. “Okay, Patrick, you have a good evening.” He shut his cellphone, picked up his glass of Glenlivet and took a deliberate swallow.
“Don't tell me, let me guess. Patrick told you to call the FBI.”
Vobitch smiled grimly. “More or less. He told me not to use him as toilet paper to cover my ass. Loosely translated, that means this conversation never happened, but if it should ever surface in some future inquiry, Patrick advised me to call the FBI.”
“Back to square one,” Frank said.
Vobitch shrugged. “Patrick didn't get where he is by acting stupid. He's not gonna take the heat if the shit hits the fan, and I can't blame him. We got any other suspects besides Gates? The guy's got big bucks, political clout and plenty of guns. His factory turns them out by the thousands.”
The men at the bar erupted in cheers. Frank and Vobitch turned and watched them exchange high-fives. The Saints must have scored a touchdown.
Refocusing on the problem, Frank said, “Donna was married before. I talked to her mother. Blanche Crochiere lives in Luling. She hates Hunter Gates, didn't want Donna to marry him.”
“Smart woman.”
“Donna anchors the news weekday afternoons on WWXL. You ever watch her?”
“Nah. I like the one on the local Fox affiliate. Raven something-or-other.”
“Raven Woodson, the investigative reporter. I've watched her a few times. She's good.”
“Got an up-north accent, might be a damn Yankee like us.” Vobitch rattled the ice in his glass. “You think Gates killed them?”
“Donna maybe, but not Emily. He seemed genuinely worried about her.”
“His business has gotta be worth a few mill, not to mention the Lakeview mansion and the fancy cars he drives. Maybe he's screwing around and Donna found out, so he killed her.”
“When? The kids were home Saturday night.”
“That's what Gates told you. Maybe he had the nanny take them somewhere, killed her later.”
“What about the gun show party? People must have seen him. I can ask around ...”
“I'd hold off on that if I were you. He finds out you talked to the mucky-mucks he'll nail you to the cross. You think they had a pre-nup?”
Deadpan, Frank said, “Maybe. You want to ask him?”
Vobitch gave him The Look, a frosty-eyed stare. “Only if I got my trusty Beretta loaded with hollow-points trained on the motherfucker. Gates is a cold son-of-a-bitch, canceled his wife's credit cards. Maybe she took the kids and split. Maybe she sent him the email.”
Frank shook his head. “Donna doesn't strike me as the gold-digger type. Even if Gates cut her out of his millions in a pre-nup, she makes good money herself.”
“What about the first husband? He got a grudge against her?”
“I don't know, but I'll call him, see what I can find out. And don't forget the anti-gun nuts.”
“Plenty of nuts out there, Frank. Anti-gun, anti-abortion, anti-this-that-or-the-other. Plenty of people hate Gates, too. Guys like him don't get where they are without stepping on toes.”
“We can't ignore the possibility that someone kidnapped them. More than one, probably. One person couldn't subdue three people, even if two of them are kids.”
“Control the kids, you control the parent.” Vobitch raked his fingers through his hair. “Directions follow, the ransom note says. Why didn't they put them in the email?”
“Maybe they figured Gates needed time to get the cash. Maybe they haven't figured out how to do the swap.”
“There won't be a swap if they're dead,” Vobitch said grimly. Clearly troubled, his slate-gray eyes full of concern, he said, “I don't like this. Gates doesn't want any publicity. No police report, no FBI. Hell, I don't trust the fibbies, either. They don't play nice with cops, take all the credit when things go right, but none of the blame if things blow up in their face. But if Gates wants his family back, wouldn't you think he'd want all the help he could get?”
“He's a control freak, owns a business, he's used to telling other people what to do. And he's right about one thing.” Frank tapped the notepad. “It says no cops or the kids are dead. If they're watching the house, it wouldn't be hard to spot a crew of FBI agents.”
Vobitch drained the last of his Glenlivet. “We're not obligated to call the FBI. Not our problem if Gates won't cooperate with them. Let's wait and see if he gets another email.”
Frank visualized the photographs in the Gates house: five-year-old Emily, ten-year-old Robbie and Donna, last seen by Hunter Gates at seven-thirty last night, twenty-two hours ago. “Morgan, you know as well as I do, a lot of kidnappers kill the hostages within the first twenty-four hours.”
“If Gates doesn't get proof of life soon ….” Vobitch stopped, clearly unwilling to articulate what that meant.
The possibilities made Frank's blood run cold. He considered himself a tough cop, able to set aside his feelings and focus on facts. But when a case involved kids, he took it personally. A breath of chill air brushed his neck, like an ominous dark cloud on the horizon. If they didn't get proof of life, he might be investigating three homicides.
_____
Doubled over on the bed, Donna hugged her midsection, fighting the cramps that stabbed her gut. She was a prisoner, locked in a ten-foot-square room with a window on one wall, a locked door on another. The narrow bed was the only furniture, a bare bulb in a ceiling fixture the only light.
She had no idea how long she'd been here. Hours ago, she had woken in darkness, confused and disoriented, her mouth dry, her head fuzzy as though she'd been drugged. Not knowing where she was. She tried to remember what happ
ened, but the memory lay beyond her grasp.
Had Hunter taken her somewhere to scare her?
Where were Emily and Robbie?
Then, as her head slowly cleared she remembered Robbie's screams. “Mom! Mommy!” And it all came back. Two men in Halloween masks invading her house. Taking her children. Not a nightmare. A hideous reality.
She hadn't slept since, pacing the shitty little room like a madwoman, wracked with guilt and sick with fear. If Emily threw a tantrum, the kidnappers might hurt her. Robbie was older, smart enough to know not to make waves. Lord knows he'd had enough practice at home.
Earlier when Donald Duck brought her a container of juice, she'd asked him how they were. He said they were fine, but she didn't believe him. They had to be terrified. She should have protected them.
Donald Duck was as tall as Hunter, six-four, but he seemed bigger, as brawny and muscular as the Saints football players she'd interviewed. Now that he wasn't wearing gloves, she could see he was a black man. Mickey Mouse wasn't. He wasn't as big either, but he seemed more dangerous, his eyes cold and hard. Ruthless. When she had asked to see her children, he'd laughed and said, “I don't think so.”
She rubbed the red welts on her forearms. Whenever she got stressed, she broke out in hives. An antihistamine prescription was in her purse, but Mickey had taken it. Her cellphone was in the purse, too, which meant she couldn't call anyone to help her.
Another airplane droned by overhead. They must be near the airport. She couldn't see out the window. Dark blue material—a blanket maybe—covered the outside of it. Same with the window in the bathroom down the hall. She'd tried to open them, but they were nailed shut. She didn't dare break the glass. The kidnappers would hear it. Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse.
Who the hell were they? What did they want? Money?
Hunter would pay plenty to get Emily back. But not for Robbie.
Maybe not for her, either.
In the beginning he had showered her with attention, took her out for romantic dinners, asked her to help him redecorate the house. After she got pregnant, he took her to his gun range to teach her how to shoot. Tucked into his body with his muscular arms around her, she felt protected and safe. The way she'd felt when her father taught her to play tennis. But that had been an illusion. Years later, she had cowered in her room with the door shut, sobbing, her hands pressed over her ears to block out her father's drunken rages.
At the gun range, Hunter positioned her hands on a small, snub-nosed revolver and told her to sight down the barrel at the target. But she hated guns. She closed her eyes, pulled the trigger and missed the target completely. Even with ear protection, the gunshot made her flinch. He made her try again. And again. Until she finally said, “I can't do this. Guns scare me.”
That was a mistake. It made him angry. That scared her, too.
A portent of things to come.
During her pregnancy, she'd felt happy and content. Hunter loved her. Soon they would be a happy family, fulfilling her secret lifelong dream. But after Emily was born, Hunter grew distant and cold. She wanted to do things as a family, but Hunter didn't. He left her home with Robbie and took Emily out to playgrounds and restaurants and movies.
Still, she didn't dare divorce him. She'd already been through one ugly divorce. Divorcing Hunter would be a million times worse. They were the handsome power couple, the wealthy city councilman and the popular TV anchorwoman. Every reporter in Louisiana would sit in the courtroom, salivating, waiting to hear what she'd say. He takes me in the bedroom and holds a gun on me and … Humiliating. She could never do it.
Besides, Hunter would never let her go. He wanted to run for the U.S. Senate, wanted a good-looking smiling wife by his side. And that was only the first step. Hunter had bigger ambitions, already picturing himself seated at the desk in the Oval Office.
It had been weeks since they'd had sex. Last night when they argued, he'd told her the exact date. “August twenty-fifth, the week before Labor Day.” How OCD was that?
Hunter liked sex, rough sex, as often as possible. Domination and control. Just thinking about it made her shudder. She figured he'd found other women to satisfy his kinky appetites, but at this point she didn't care.
What frightened her the most: Last night, he'd said, “I'm tired of trying to please you and supporting your brat. That's what he is, Donna. The illegitimate kid you had when you were married before. You ever pull something like that on me, I'll kill you.”
At least he hadn't pulled his Defender on her. One of his many guns. The others were locked in a gun safe in the garage. She didn't have the key. Hunter was hyper about gun safety, especially with children in the house. Whenever the anti-gun people challenged him at public rallies or during TV interviews, he'd say, “Never leave a loaded gun where a child might find it.”
But always keep one handy to make your wife behave and do what you want.
Did he pay these men to kidnap her and beat her into submission? She scratched the welts on her neck. The hives were spreading. She knew she shouldn't scratch them, but she couldn't help it. She feared for her children, but that wasn't her only worry.
Her period was four days late.
After Emily was born, she got back on The Pill, but two years ago Hunter made her stop. He wanted a son. Fearing he'd check the pharmacy, she'd asked her mother to get her an appointment with a gynecologist in Luling. The doctor had recommended an implant because of its low failure rate; only one woman in 2000 got pregnant. But she was afraid Hunter might notice it.
Now the woman gave her an injection once a month. But that wasn't as safe. One woman in 500 got pregnant. Was she one of the unlucky ones?
On Monday, she'd planned to buy a pregnancy test.
But she hadn't planned on getting kidnapped.
She should have gotten her tubes tied, but she didn't want to eliminate the possibility of having another child. Not with Hunter. With René.
Her heart spasmed in a frenzy of fear.
If Hunter found out about René, he'd kill them both.
CHAPTER 8
MONDAY October 25 – 6:20 AM
Sam leaned against the door, inhaling the rubber stink of the mask, wishing Darin would hurry up and take the girl's picture. Emily was standing beside the bed, holding today's newspaper, didn't look any happier than her mother. They had already taken her picture.
She kept asking about the kids, until Darin snapped, “They're fine, but they won't be if you keep yapping at me.” She had some kind of rash, pink blotches all over her arms. When Sam asked about it, she said she got hives when she was nervous and she had a prescription for it in her purse. Looking at him when she'd said this, but not asking him for it.
Anxious to leave, Sam checked the time. If Darin didn't hurry up, he'd be late for work.
“Hold the newspaper under your chin,” Darin said, “and smile at the camera.”
But the girl didn't smile, she looked at Sam, big blue eyes like her mother, eyes that filled with tears. Knowing she was about to cry, he said, “Emily, smile for your daddy so he'll come get you.”
Her bottom lip trembled. “When?”
Darin said, “Don't ask questions, just—”
Sam squeezed his arm to shut him up. “Smile nice for Daddy,” he said, “and I'll give you a coloring book.” Holding it up to show her.
On the way he'd stopped at a 24-hour Rite Aid on Veterans Boulevard to buy a Times-Picayune, and picked up a couple of coloring books and two boxes of crayons. The clerk, a black kid, college age, looked at him funny when he paid for them, probably thought he was some kind of pervert. That made him nervous. He hoped the kid wouldn't remember him.
Emily tried to smile, the corners of her lips twitching.
“Great,” Sam said. “A nice big smile for Daddy.”
The girl smiled and Darin snapped the picture.
Sam went over and gave her the coloring book and the crayons.
“When's Daddy coming?” Gazing up at him, her
blue eyes wide with innocence.
Feeling like a scumbag, he said, “Soon,” and hurried out the door.
When he went in the kitchen, Darin had taken off his mask, checking the photographs now, nodding like he was happy with them.
“Where's the woman's purse?” Sam said. “She needs her medicine.”
“So what? She—”
“I don't have time to argue. I gotta go or I'll be late for work. Where's the purse?”
Darin opened a cupboard, took out an expensive-looking brown-leather handbag and gave it to him. He opened it, found the prescription and put the handbag on the counter.
Darin smirked at him. “You're such a wuss.”
Sam wanted to belt him, might have if it hadn't been so late. He grabbed a bottled water and went to Donna's room. When he unlocked the door and went inside, she was sitting on the bed, rubbing her arms. He gave her the prescription and the water.
“Thank you,” she said.
“The kids are fine. Take your medicine,” he said, and left.
Still felt like a scumbag.
_____
Robbie sat on the bed and drank the last of the juice, Mixed Berry today. If they didn't give him any more, he could always get water from the faucet in the bathroom. But he was hungry. No Egg McMuffin this morning.
Last night Donald Duck had given him a crappy TV dinner, sliced turkey, peas and mashed potatoes with yucky gravy on it. He scraped off the gravy and ate the rest, but it didn't fill him up.
Not like the turkey dinner Mom cooked for Christmas last year. Thinking about that almost made him cry, so he did ten jumping jacks to distract himself.
Another plane droned by overhead. Now that it was getting light, planes were taking off and landing every few minutes. Maybe he'd time them to see how long it was between planes. It would give him something to do. He checked his digital watch. 6:28.
He'd been awake since 5:55. Then the kidnappers had come in his room to take his picture, with today's newspaper. He'd seen enough TV shows about kidnappings to know what that meant. They were going to send his picture to Hunter to prove he was alive.
