by Susan Fleet
Dead silence greeted Frank as he entered Vobitch's office and slipped into the visitor chair to the left of the desk. He refused to look at Gates, seated at the other end of the desk, kept his eyes on Vobitch. Vobitch had his game-face on, jaw set, his slate-gray eyes laser-beams of fury. He hadn't bothered to shave, but his mane of silvery hair was neatly combed.
After the disaster at Delgardo, Vobitch had called and told Frank to meet him in his office. When he and Lucien arrived, Vobitch had told Frank to grill the kid and had Lucien videotape Vobitch opening the suitcase with the money to preserve the chain of evidence.
The coffeemaker on the file cabinet beside Gates emitted the aroma of coffee, but no one was drinking any. Vobitch wasn’t in a hospitable mood.
Terrence Walsh occupied the chair beside Gates, his thin-lipped mouth set in a line, no smile in his Irish blue eyes. An imposing presence, the Special Agent in Charge of the New Orleans FBI office was six-foot-three, ruggedly built with frizzy apricot-colored hair. Beside Walsh, a short, dark-haired woman sat in the chair nearest Frank, dressed in standard FBI attire, a black pantsuit, a cream-colored blouse showing in the V of the jacket.
Breaking the tense silence, Walsh said belligerently, “Detective Vobitch, why did I get a phone call at one o'clock in the morning about this? Why didn't you tell me about it before?”
Expressionless, Vobitch said nothing, waiting for Walsh's volcanic eruption to run its course. “Detective Renzi,” Walsh snarled, glowering at him, “were you in charge of this operation?”
A tiny gesture from Vobitch signaled Frank not to answer. Raising his voice, Vobitch said, “Special Agent in Charge Walsh. At my direction, Homicide Detective Renzi supervised three teams of my detectives acting on behalf of Councilman Gates to protect his interests and those of his family.”
“Fine, but—”
“The reason I put Detective Renzi in charge,” Vobitch said, ignoring the interruption, “is because he's my most experienced detective. Before he joined NOPD, he worked Homicide for Boston PD for several years. While he was there he took several courses at the FBI training facility in Quantico, Virginia.”
Suppressing a smile, Frank tried to look humble as Vobitch recited his qualifications. He glanced at the female FBI agent, who met his gaze, a glimmer of amusement in her brown eyes. She looked young, mid-to-late thirties, but she'd probably been with the Bureau long enough to witness a few pissing contests between FBI agents and cops.
“Fine,” Walsh said, “but you should have called me—”
“We didn't call you because Councilman Gates—” Vobitch gestured at Gates. “Councilman Gates on two occasions explicitly told us not to. Isn't that right, Councilman?”
After a brief hesitation, Gates said, “Yes.”
“You mind introducing your colleague?” Frank said to Walsh. “Seems like the rest of us know each other, but I've not had the privilege of meeting her.”
A flush rose on Walsh's pock-marked cheeks. “This is Special Agent Claudia Cohen. She came to the New Orleans FBI office six months ago after several years of outstanding service in our Chicago office. She’s a fine agent with a distinguished career.”
Gesturing as he spoke, Walsh introduced the others. Cohen inclined her head at Gates, Vobitch and Frank, but said nothing. Frank figured Walsh had rousted her out of bed and she wanted to get the lay of the land first. Her dark curly hair was cut short and swept back from her heart-shaped face. Dark eyes, a narrow nose, generous lips, and a sense of humor, judging by the flash of amusement he'd seen in her eyes a moment ago.
“Special Agent Cohen will take charge of the case,” Walsh said, “and report directly to me.” Directing a sardonic smile at Vobitch, he added, “I expect all of your fine detectives to cooperate with Agent Cohen and share whatever information they have with her.”
“Can I assume that's a two-way street?” Vobitch said.
Stone-faced, Walsh said, “We'll share any pertinent information.”
Frank wouldn't hold his breath. He was sure Walsh would share whatever information he had with Gates, who clearly had pull with Walsh. The SAC wouldn't rush to a meeting at this hour after getting a phone call from just anybody. Gates gave free memberships in his gun club to agents in the New Orleans FBI office. Maybe they got other perks, too. Gates was a politician. He knew how it worked. Grease my palm and I'll grease yours.
Walsh rose to his feet and said to Agent Cohen, “Get to work on this ASAP.” He motioned to Gates, who picked up the trash bag that contained the ransom money. Vobitch had sent the suitcase to the crime lab to be processed.
Gates followed Walsh out the door, but Agent Cohen didn't. Turning to Frank, she said, “Can we meet in your office later?”
“Sure. Nine o'clock?”
“Thanks. See you then,” she said, and left the office.
“Watch out for CC,” Vobitch said, with a nasty gleam in his eyes.
Annoyed, he said, “CC?” Awake twenty hours straight, he was in no mood for riddles.
“Special Agent Claudia Cohen. Henceforth referred to as CC in any communications you and I might have. And we'll probably be having a few.” Vobitch took a small tape recorder out of the half-open top drawer of his desk. “Gates and Walsh want to play hardball, so can I. If the shit hits the fan and they try to screw us, I got them on tape. Gates admitted he told us not to call the FBI.”
“Good move,” Frank said. But it wouldn't help Donna if the kidnappers retaliated. No cops or the kids are dead …
“CC's got a pretty face, Frank, but don't be fooled. She reports to Walsh.”
“And Walsh reports to Gates. I still think he might be involved in this. Donna and the kids are still missing, could be dead for all we know, and Gates just left with his money.”
“Hell, anything's possible. Gates likes giving orders. And so does Walsh.”
“I noticed.”
“You get anything from the kid that picked up the loot?”
“No. That might change after a night in the lockup, but I doubt it.”
“You think Gates had him pick up the suitcase?”
“No. He described the guy who did. It wasn't Gates.”
“Gotta be two kidnappers, one to mind the hostages, one to pick up the bucks. But Gates could have paid them to do it.”
“Maybe, but remember what the first email said? Pay for your sins.”
Vobitch nodded. “Meaning what?”
“Maybe someone's got a grudge against Gates.” Frank yawned. “If the damn security guard hadn't showed up, we'd have nailed the kidnapper when he picked up the suitcase from the kid.”
“Shit happens, Frank. Go home and get some sleep.” Vobitch flashed a sardonic smile. “Gotta be sharp for CC at your nine o'clock meeting.”
_____
Donna bolted upright on the bed, jolted awake by a hideous nightmare, garish faces with vacant eyes, blood dripping from their mouths as they screamed at her. Her heart pounded, a vicious club beating her ribs. She got out of bed, crept to the door and listened.
Earlier she'd heard loud voices. It sounded like the kidnappers were arguing. The black man was nice to her, but Mickey wasn't. Whenever she asked to use the bathroom, he gave her a hard time. He wouldn't even let her take a shower. Her flowered-print shirt reeked of body odor, and her white Bermuda shorts had food stains all over them, but she didn't dare take them off, not even to sleep. One of the kidnappers might come in the room.
When she asked Donald Duck about Robbie and Emily, he said they were fine. When she asked Mickey, he told her to shut her up.
Now the house seemed eerily quiet. Something bad was happening, she could feel it in her bones. Who were these kidnappers? Did Hunter pay them to do this? Maybe not. If he wanted to scare her, it wouldn't take this long.
Either way, she was terrified. And trapped.
To quell her anxiety, she started jogging in place beside the bed, barefoot. Whenever she tried to sleep, she took off her low-heeled sling-back loafers to air them out. Not that i
t did any good. Her feet stank and so did her underwear. Disgusting. She always put on fresh underwear every day.
She concentrated on jogging, raising her knees high and pumping her arms. But it didn't quell her anxiety or the questions that swirled in her mind. What did her co-workers think when she didn't come to work on Monday?
What about her mother? Did she know they'd been kidnapped? Maybe not. René might not, either. Usually they phoned each other twice a week, but she hadn't spoken to him since last Tuesday. A week ago.
Despair rose up inside her, bringing tears to her eyes. What if she never saw him again?
If only she could talk to him. Too exhausted to think, she crawled into bed and curled up in a ball. Most days she jogged two miles around the neighborhood before breakfast and didn't feel the least bit tired. The last time she'd done that was Saturday morning.
Three days ago, but it felt like an eternity.
Now she was locked in a little room, frantic about Robbie and Emily, worried she might be pregnant. She put a hand on her chest and felt her heartbeat. Was another tiny heart beating inside her? Not yet, but soon there might be.
When she was pregnant with Robbie, she’d vowed to be the perfect mom. Natural childbirth, no drugs. She could still remember the day the doctor laid his tiny body on her stomach. She took him home and breastfed him. Read to him when she rocked him to sleep. Rejoiced at his early accomplishments: crawling, walking, then running. Thrilled by his intelligence and creativity, she had sent him to Montessori school and paid for his piano lessons.
A sudden premonition jolted her upright. Robbie was in trouble, she could feel it.
If he fell off his bike and scraped his knee, she felt his pain. When Hunter berated him, she saw the sadness in his eyes, her heart aching for him. If only she could tell him about René. Hunter didn't care about Robbie, but René did.
René loved him with all his heart.
_____
Darin drove down Williams Boulevard, a four-lane thoroughfare in Kenner, stopped at a traffic light and looked at the Gates kid. The boy wouldn't look at him, sitting in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, hands clenched in his lap, his wrists bound together.
When the light changed, Darin turned left onto West Napoleon Avenue, a divided street with a drainage canal in the middle, and accelerated. No traffic this time of night.
“Where are we going?” the kid said, his voice high-pitched and shaky.
“Lafreniere Park. Ever been there?”
“I want to go home. I won't tell on you, honest.”
Darin smiled. A true statement if ever there was one. Robbie wouldn't be telling anyone about anything. He did a U-turn at the next turnaround, drove back to Lafreniere Park, took a right at the entrance and drove into the park. In the daytime there would be all kinds of people around, walking their dogs or jogging along the trails. Now it was dark and deserted.
He parked near the carousel and shut off the engine.
“You ever come here and ride the carousel?”
“No.”
“Too bad. It's fun. My mother used to bring me here.”
The kid didn't say anything, just looked at him, his eyes wide with fear.
Darin got out, circled the van and opened the passenger door. “Come on and I'll show you.”
He took the kid's arm, helped him out of the van and pointed at the carousel. In the daytime colored lights flashed on and off, lighting up the carousel. Not now. No music either.
“See that? It's got horses that go up and down, and a tiger and a zebra. I always rode the tiger. It costs a dollar. Ma used to save up her money to bring me here. My father never did. He had plenty of money, but he didn't give a shit about me.”
The kid gazed at him, not saying anything.
“Not like your daddy. But your daddy fucked up.”
“He's not my father.”
“Shut up! Right from the beginning you had a father. A daddy who loved you and hugged you and bought you ice cream. But I never did.”
The kid shook his head, lips trembling, his eyes brimming with tears. “He's not my father—”
“Shut up!” Rage exploded inside him like an atomic bomb. “He's my father, okay. My father!”
The kid stared at him, slack-jawed.
“But he didn't want nothing to do with me. Didn't want nothing to do with my mother, either. So now he's gonna pay.”
“Please,” the kid said, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Please, don't kill me.”
“Time to pray, kid. Get on your knees.”
The kid shook his head, sobbing now. Darin grabbed his bony shoulders and forced him to kneel beside the van.
“Please,” the kid said. “I didn't do anything.”
Darin opened the rear door of the van and took out a baseball bat.
CHAPTER 17
TUESDAY
As he often did while working a difficult case, Frank woke up at dawn and couldn't get back to sleep, his mind grinding out various scenarios, none of them good. He went into the kitchen naked, drank a glass of orange juice and got a double-shot going in his LavAzza Espresso Machine.
The first time Kelly saw it on the counter beside his rinky-dink toaster-oven she laughed and said it looked like a shiny new Cadillac in a cheap used car lot. He'd told her his first priority in the morning was a good cup of coffee, not food. He should call her. He hadn't talked to her since he'd driven her to the airport to catch her flight to Chicago last Friday, but he'd been too busy.
He got in the shower and let hot water beat on him. It eased the knots in his muscles, but didn't allay his fears about Donna and her kids. Ten minutes later he toweled off, ran a comb through his hair, put on a polo shirt and a pair of slacks, and went in the kitchen.
The narrow six-foot-wide space had a small window at the far end and a breakfast bar for two at the end near the living room. He poured himself a cup of espresso, savoring the rich aroma. Usually he took his morning brew in the living room and drank it by the window, watching people scurry down the sidewalk two floors below him. But not today. He had to make a phone call.
He took a sip of espresso and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar. It was 8:25. Blanche was probably drinking coffee in her rustic log cabin, having her first cigarette of the day.
When he called, she answered right away, saying anxiously, “What's going on, Frank? Donna didn't do the news last night. Did she bring the kids home?”
“Not yet. I take it they're not at your house.”
“No. I would have called you if they were.”
“I talked to Nick Roberts yesterday. He says Robbie's not his son.”
There was a long silence. He heard her light a cigarette. “Sorry, Frank. I should have told you, but that was such an ugly mess ...”
“Nick's lawyer told me about the paternity test. If Nick isn't Robbie's father, who is?”
“I don't know and believe me, I asked. Donna wouldn't tell me. I think she was afraid I'd slip up and tell someone. She's paranoid about the paternity issue. She's afraid if it goes public it will ruin her career. She made Nick's lawyer stipulate in the divorce agreement that Nick could never talk about it.”
Frank combed his fingers through his damp hair. Everyone was keeping secrets, including him. He didn't want to tell Blanche about the botched ransom drop, but if she started making phone calls, it would be a disaster. “Someone sent an email to Hunter with a ransom demand.”
Blanched gasped, a sharp intake of breath.
“They said if he called the cops, the kids would die.”
“That's horrible! How could they—”
“Blanche, listen to me. Do not tell anyone about this. One word to the wrong person could put Donna and the kids in danger.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “I won't tell anyone, Frank, but Donna and the kids have been gone since Saturday. Do you think they're okay?”
Not a question he wanted to answer. “Have you called her?”
“Yes, but s
he didn't answer.”
“If you know anything that could help us find them, you need to tell me.”
She let out a heavy sigh. “I don't know if this will help, but one day when Donna was living here after the divorce, Robbie was playing with his toys and Donna said, sort of to herself, 'He looks just like René.' When I said he should be paying child support, she got angry. She said he works on a cruise ship and doesn't make much money. I didn't want to get into an argument, so I didn't press her. She hasn't said a word about him since.”
Frank jotted notes in his notepad. “Is she still involved with him?”
“I don't know. Frank, I'm really worried. Call me right away if you hear anything.”
He said he would, shut his cellphone and studied his notes.
René No-Last-Name, Donna's lover, worked on a cruise ship. Not much, but better than nothing. He drained his espresso and checked the time. 8:48. No time to shave. He had to meet Claudia Cohen at nine.
A brisk ten-minute walk to the station would give him enough time to figure out what to tell her. And what to keep to himself.
_____
By the time Sam eased his patrol car onto Bourbon Street the sanitation trucks had washed away the stench of spilled beer and picked up the trash. Not much doing at this hour, a few tourists taking snapshots, a drunk sprawled in an alley, panhandlers holding signs with their tales of woe. He rolled down his window and heard loud music blasting from a second-floor balcony.
“Shut the fuck up!” a voice screamed, a bare-chested white guy with a shaved head leaning out a window. “Shut the fucking music off!”
Sam blipped his siren and the guy disappeared. Ruminating over his problem, he continued along Bourbon, in no mood to work this morning, not after what happened last night. Jesus, what a mess!
He drove down to Royal Street, parked on the sidewalk opposite the State Supreme Court Building and popped another Tums. His stomach was killing him. Last night when he left, Darin had been coked up and angry, no telling what the hothead might do. When he got home, he had tossed and turned for hours, agonizing over his predicament.
