by Susan Fleet
Unable to sleep, Donna paced her little rat-trap of a room, cursing the kidnappers, her thoughts flitting from one problem to another. Trapped in this little room and trapped in a loveless marriage. On the wall opposite the bed was a closet with a louvered bi-fold door, but the handle was bound shut with electrical cord. Thinking she might find something to help her escape, she'd broken a fingernail trying to untie it. But that was the least of her worries.
Not knowing where Robbie and Emily were, not being able to comfort them made her frantic. The hives were gone, but if she kept worrying like this they would come back. When Donald Duck gave her the prescription, he'd said they were okay, but he might be lying. Hunter did that to placate her when she got angry and worked up the courage to fight him.
How could they be okay? They were probably locked in a shitty little room like she was. Emily tried to act like she was all grown up, but she was only five. Well, almost six, but still. Maybe she and Robbie were together. They didn't get along that well, but at least they could talk to each other. But if Emily got mad and threw a tantrum, Robbie wouldn't be able to stop her.
Tears stung her eyes. She gritted her teeth and blinked them back. She couldn't cry now. She had to stay strong and think of a way to escape. If only Donald Duck had brought her purse with her cellphone when he gave her the prescription. She had no idea what time it was, the minutes crawling by like stalled traffic on the Interstate. Nothing to do and too much time to think.
What did Hunter do when he got home Saturday night, she wondered. Call her mother to see if she was there? Maybe not. Her mother hated Hunter even more than she hated Nick.
Both of them were ruthless, driven men with cutthroat personalities. Like her father, though she didn't realize this until it was too late. Nick even looked like father: handsome, blue-eyed and blond.
After her father's funeral someone had invited her to a New Year's Eve party at an off-campus BU apartment. She put on a brave front, smiling to conceal her true feelings. She didn't want anyone to know how abandoned she felt. Nick Roberts was at the party. His self-confident air impressed her. He was a business major, and he expected to make his first million before he was thirty. For months he showered her with attention, pursuing her with single-minded zeal. A week before graduation he gave her a diamond and asked her to marry him. She said yes.
Nick landed a job with a big investment firm in Miami. He made great money, but he worked sixty hours a week. Now he had no interest in her. Money was his aphrodisiac. When she complained that she hardly saw him, he said he was on a fast track for a promotion. Weekends, he played golf with his work buddies. Later, she found out what he really did. He wasn't out screwing other women, he was romancing his gambling passion. Plenty of opportunities for that in Miami: race tracks, sports betting parlors and Jai Alai games.
But she didn't want to think about Nick. She'd rather think about René.
Her soul mate. The love of her life.
Abandoned by Nick, she polished her resume and landed her first television job. A small station in a Miami suburb needed a weather-girl. She hated it, but she made up her mind to be the best damn weather-girl they ever had. She and Nick rarely saw each other. He went to work early, came home late and complained if she hadn't cooked dinner for him. He wanted her to quit her job and have a baby, but she didn't want to.
She didn't intend to be a weather-girl forever.
The first week of December in 1999 she gave the program director a clip of her final BU project and asked if she could do a report on holiday cruises. He agreed to let her produce a half-hour special on holiday cruise ships that sailed out of Miami.
René played jazz piano for Carnival Cruises. When she interviewed him, his sparkling eyes and sweet smile captivated her. He asked her out for a drink. She accepted and fell madly in love with him.
They were the same age—twenty-three—and eager to conquer the world, the jazz world in René's case. She was determined to get a job as a television anchorwoman. René had grown up in New Orleans. When he said all the men on his father's side of the family were jazz musicians, she told him her mother grew up in Luling and had a math degree from Brown University. She didn't mention her alcoholic father.
Soon they began an affair. When René's ship docked in Miami, they met as often as they could, making love in cheap motels, walking the beaches, going to movies, and talking endlessly. They never ran out of things to talk about.
But then she got pregnant. Nick was thrilled. She wasn't. Her boss wasn't either. When she started to show, he pulled her off the air and made her do voice-overs.
And then Robbie was born. A mind-blowing experience.
Donna stopped pacing and smiled. Even now, ten years later, she could remember her elation when the doctor placed him on her stomach. She adored him. At three months, he looked just like René, big brown eyes, tawny skin and a beautiful smile. Oddly, although she had no job, she felt happy and content, reveling in Robbie's every accomplishment: sitting up, rolling over, his first tooth. But Nick, who had urged her to have a baby, paid no attention to him.
One Sunday after Robbie started walking, he toddled over to Nick, held up his arms and said “DaDa.” But Nick couldn't take his eyes off the pro football game on the TV. Furious at Nick, wondering which team he'd bet on, she had taken Robbie outside to play.
Then, the bombshell. Nick showed her a photograph taken by the private detective he'd hired, a close-up of her leaving a motel room. Livid, he screamed, “Robbie's not my son. He doesn't look anything like me. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. Who the hell have you been screwing?” He had demanded a paternity test, with predictable results. Nick was not Robbie's father.
Donna sank onto the bed and rubbed the pink blotches on her forearms. Just thinking about those ugly fights, the screaming matches, the courtroom battles, brought back the hives. That and the fact that her period was late. The macaroni-and-cheese they'd fed her for lunch had made her nauseous. Another indication that she might be pregnant.
This morning Mickey Mouse had taken her picture holding today's Times-Picayune. She knew why. To send it to Hunter to prove she was alive. How much money did they want? Hunter would pay anything to get Emily back.
She still couldn't shake her nagging suspicion that Hunter had engineered this to scare her. Make her toe the line. Domination and control to the max.
She wanted to get out of this miserable room and take Robbie and Emily with her. But if she went home and Hunter found out she was pregnant, he would fly into a rage, take her in their bedroom, aim his fucking Defender at her and ask her who she'd been fucking.
Her heart jolted in an erratic rhythm. Just thinking about the gun sent her heart racing out of control.
Maybe she wouldn't go home. Maybe this was an opportunity in disguise.
Maybe she should spend her time planning her escape from Hunter.
CHAPTER 12
MONDAY – 11:15 PM
Three blocks from the restaurant where he worked, Darin leaned against his van, puffing a cigarette. Now that his plan was in motion, he was smoking more than ever. At least the Menthol Newports cooled his throat. The street was dark, no bars or restaurants around here, but a streetlight lit up gobs of bird-shit on the hood of his white van. He'd parked beside a fire hydrant, but he wouldn't be here long.
Sweets, the black kid who bought weed from him—and nose candy when he could afford it—would be here any minute. Darin didn't know his real name. Sweets was his street name. The kid gobbled up Ring Dings, Twinkies and Hostess Cupcakes like some starving refugee in a re-settlement camp. No wonder he had rotten teeth.
Darin heard sirens off to his left, cop cars racing up Canal Street. Nothing to do with him, but it set him on edge, the cops cruising the French Quarter every night of the week.
A powder-blue Mustang rumbled around the corner and parked behind his van. Sweets got out and lumbered up to him, short and squat, a baggy white T-shirt draped over his pants to hide his big gut. “Yo, whas up?”
Sweets looked at him, eyes wary. “Why you want me to do it? What's in the suitcase?”
“I gotta go home and help my mother. She just got out of the hospital.” He pulled a glassine bag out of his pocket. “Here's a little taste of coke. You get more when you bring me the suitcase.”
Sweets took the bag and stuffed it in the pocket of his pants. “When do I pick it up?”
“The guy drops it off at midnight. You drive up Esplanade to City Park Avenue, meet me in the Delgado College parking lot. I take the suitcase, you get another bag of coke.”
“Cool, man.” Sweets turned to go, but Darin grabbed his arm.
“Don't mess with the suitcase. Put it in the trunk. If you open it, I'll know and so will Mr. Black.” Amused by the name, Darin suppressed a smile. He'd borrowed it from a movie he'd seen. Reservoir Dogs, about a gang of thieves, each one named after a different color.
Dead serious now, he locked eyes with Sweets, fixing him with a vicious stare. “Mr. Black would as soon shoot you as look at you. Open that suitcase, you're a dead man.”
_____
11:50 PM
Hyper-vigilant, Frank sat in the surveillance van, anxiously scanning Esplanade Avenue. The historic boulevard ran north from the Mississippi to City Park. During the 1800s, it had served as a portage route to transport goods offloaded at the river to Lake Pontchartrain. The Old U.S. Mint stood at the foot of the street. It no longer printed currency. Now it was a museum, a big tourist attraction at the eastern edge of the French Quarter. Beyond it, Frenchman Street restaurants and music clubs drew flocks of tourists and locals, Frank among them.
But not tonight. He checked the time. 11:50.
Ten minutes from now Gates would leave a suitcase with million dollars behind the Circle-K on the northbound side of Esplanade. A grassy median—the neutral ground in New Orleans parlance—separated the north and southbound lanes. Kenyon had parked the van on the southbound side fifty yards away. They'd been here fifteen minutes, sweltering, the engine off, the windows shut to prevent any leakage from the communications equipment in the rear compartment.
Inconspicuous was the watchword. Attract no attention.
The odor of stale sweat and coffee permeated the cab. Coffee containers sat in the console between the seats, but Frank didn't drink any. He was too wired, worrying about all the things that could go wrong, his stomach burning with acid. In any kidnapping, the ransom drop was the easy part. Getting the victims back—Donna, Robbie and Emily—was more problematic. All too often, the thugs took the money and killed the hostages. If they hadn't already.
Sweating in his black running suit and navy windbreaker, Frank shifted in his seat. Wedged in his waistband under the windbreaker, his SIG-Sauer was a reassuring presence at the small of his back. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it. The worst-case scenario.
He raised the night-vision binoculars and studied the Circle-K on the corner of Dauphine, a one-way street that fed into northbound Esplanade. Above the door, a sign bore the store logo, a bright red K inside a large white circle. Flanking the door, signs on wide windows advertised specials on beer, cigarettes and Pampers. Lights blazed inside the store, which sold fresh-made coffee, cigarettes, beer and assorted food staples. And diapers, apparently.
A blue Camaro passed the van, blasting music so loud it penetrated the van windows.
Frank checked his watch. 11:53. Seven minutes to go.
Kenyon yawned, a reflex reaction to stress, sucking air deep into his lungs. He mopped his forehead, said nothing. One reason Frank loved working with him: Kenyon knew when to talk and when to be silent. Nothing more irritating on a stakeout than listening to mindless chitchat from a partner.
Gates was right about one thing. Waiting was the hardest part, the time ticking by second-by-nerve-wracking second, what-ifs popping up in his mind like bobble-head dolls. A car drives down Dauphine, Gates drops the suitcase and jumps the driver. A customer leaves the store, walks around the corner, sees the suitcase and grabs it. The kidnapper shoots Gates and takes off with the money.
A burst of raucous laughter penetrated the van, people partying in a nearby house. Centuries-old live oaks shaded the houses on both sides of the street. Most were flat-roofed, two-story dwellings with porches fronted by columns that supported second-floor balconies.
“Damn,” Kenyon muttered. “It's almost midnight on a Monday night. Don't they have to work tomorrow?”
Knowing he didn't expect an answer, Frank studied the vehicles parked on either side of Esplanade: cars, vans, SUVs and trucks, which left only one lane for traffic. No parking in front of the Circle-K, which primarily served residents within walking distance. A fire hydrant sat in front of the store, though some drivers risked parking there long enough to run inside to grab a few items.
Kenyon had parked below Dauphine, which gave Frank a fine view of the dumpster behind the Circle-K. The store was open 24-7. Bad news. No telling what a customer might do if he saw Gates leave the suitcase beside the dumpster. But there was nothing to be done about that. The kidnappers were calling the shots.
Would Gates be packing? Gates had said he always kept a gun with him. Another problem to worry about. Vobitch was monitoring the operation from home, removed from the action but probably just as worried as Frank.
A Ford pickup truck parked beside the hydrant in front of the Circle-K and sat there, the motor idling. Using the binoculars, Frank studied the occupants. Two white males. After a moment, a brawny guy in a Saints T-shirt got out and ran into the store.
Silently cursing, Frank checked the time. 11:55. Five minutes to go.
Buy your fucking beer and cigarettes and get out of there.
A minute later the guy in the Saints T-shirt came out with a six-pack and hopped in the truck. The pickup truck pulled away from the curb and drove north on Esplanade.
“You think Gates will show up on time?” Kenyon said.
“He damned well better. Let's hope he doesn't do anything stupid.”
Like hang around and pull a gun on the kidnapper.
Frank wiped sweat off his forehead. The cab was an oven, had to be even hotter in the rear compartment which had no window, the equipment throwing off heat: a computer, two monitors, a VU meter, and a digital tape recorder to preserve their communication transmissions.
He gnawed his thumbnail. No matter how well you planned an operation, something unexpected could screw it up. Like an equipment failure. He rapped on the door behind him.
Dressed in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, Lucien Fradette, the NOPD computer geek, opened the door. Perched on a stool, he wore a headset to monitor the audio transmissions. He had a bad case of asthma and avoided any strenuous activity. No street action for Lucien, who got his kicks watching The Sopranos, told Frank about it every chance he got.
Frank pointed to the mic strapped to his left wrist. “Are these live? I need to talk to the troops.”
One member of each team was wearing a headset and a wrist mic.
“Good to go, Frank,” Lucien wheezed, a raspy whisper.
When Frank told him he wanted to use code names, Lucien had nodded enthusiastically. “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie?” Seemed disappointed when Frank said, “Too military. Amy, Bogart and Cupid. Gates is Darth Vader. His family is The Package. The suitcase is The Prize.”
Frank and Kenyon were Team Three—Cupid. Kenyon laughed when he'd told him, wanted to know who the lovers were. Team Two—Bogart—sat in an unmarked on Esplanade two blocks north of the Circle-K. Michael White, a black detective, no relation to famed New Orleans clarinetist Michael White, wore the headset. His wheel-man, Lester Brown, was white, current NOPD practice being to pair black and white officers whenever possible to thwart any complaints that might arise in their respective communities.
Frank checked his watch. Two minutes to midnight.
His pulse ramped up a notch. Team One—Amy
—was parked in a bakery truck outside Winn-Dixie. Herb Chandler, a veteran black detective, was the driver. On the headset was David Cho, the Chinese-American detective promoted to the District-8 homicide squad last year. Cho was one of five Asians on the force. The others were Vietnamese.
Frank inhaled deep and let out a slow stream of air. Focused on his breathing and got in a zone, willing his heart-rate down breath by breath.
He checked the time. 11:59. Now or never. Speaking into his mic, he said, “All teams listen up. One minute to action. Anything happens, use your wrist mics. That way everyone stays in the loop. Amy and Bogart acknowledge.”
“Roger that,” said David Cho.
“Roger that,” said Michael White.
“You see anything unusual,” Frank said. “I want to know right away. Otherwise, stay quiet and stay alert. Out.”
Frank’s Viking Night Vision glasses were designed to see objects up to 150 yards away. He trained them on the Circle-K, fifty yards away. Bathed in a green glow, the dumpster in the alley behind the store was clearly visible. Gates, aka Darth Vader, was due any minute with The Prize. A million bucks.
Frank studied the street beyond the dumpster. So far, so good. No cars driving down Dauphine. No pedestrians on the sidewalk. Nobody dashing into the Circle-K to buy beer or cigarettes or Pampers. No raucous laughter from party-goers.
“You see the dumpster?” Kenyon whispered.
Frank lowered the binoculars, covered the wrist mic and said, “Yeah. A rat just jumped out of it.”
Kenyon grinned and whispered, “He get anything good?”
“Yeah. A sugar doughnut.” Black humor to ease the tension. All of them felt it, Frank most of all. If this went bad and Gates didn't get his family back tonight, there would be hell to pay.
_____
Darin parked his van on a side street opposite Delgardo Community College. From here he had an unobstructed view of the parking lot on the far side of City Park Avenue. No sounds drifted through the van's open window, the neighborhood quiet, the students studying not partying. A dark SUV drove past the college followed by a red Honda Civic and disappeared off to his left.
