by Susan Fleet
“Go for it,” Frank said. “At this point, I'll take any help I can get.”
CHAPTER 29
THURSDAY – 11:20 AM
Perched on his futon, Darin snubbed out his cigarette, picked up his cellphone and studied the computer printout on the coffee table. Time to execute Plan B. First up, talk to Nancy. She lived in Muscatine, Iowa.
How many people could there be with a name like Pasquarelli? The hick town only had 23,000 residents. He punched a number into his cellphone.
“Information,” said a female voice. “How may I help you?”
“I need the number for Nancy Pasquarelli in Muscatine, Iowa.”
“Do you have the street address?”
He wanted to slap her. “If I did, I wouldn't be calling Information.”
“One moment please.”
He waited, his pen poised over the printout with the juicy stuff he'd dug up about Gates. The prick couldn't keep his dick in his pants. Couldn't follow orders either, had to call the cops. He'd fix that motherfucker.
“Sir? I found three listings for Pasquarelli. Would you like them?”
“Yes,” he said, and wrote them down as she spoke. He hung up and studied the names. Albert Pasquarelli, C. Pasquarelli and H. Pasquarelli.
But no Nancy Pasquarelli.
Fuck. The names with initials were probably women. He punched in Albert Pasquarelli's number and hit Send. What the hell was the greaseball doing in Muscatine, Iowa?
“Hello,” said a male voice.
“Hi. I'm trying to contact Nancy Pasquarelli, wondered if you could help me.”
“Whaddaya want with Nancy?” the man said belligerently.
His heart surged. Albert knew Nancy!
“A guy raped my sister, might be the same one that raped Nancy, and I want him to pay.”
After a short silence, Albert said, “How'd you hear about Nancy?”
“A friend of mine did a background check on the guy. Hunter Gates, right?”
“That's him. The shithead raped my sister Nancy. Where is he now?”
Darin hesitated. Albert didn't know where Gates was, but if he found out Gates lived in New Orleans, it might screw up his plan.
“He raped my sister in Mississippi and got himself a good lawyer. He's trying to weasel out of the rape charge.”
“Just like he did with Nancy. Him and his asshole buddies made it sound like it was her fault, but it wasn't. The scumbags dragged her in the locker room and took turns with her. Five guys!”
“That's horrible!” Darin exclaimed, egging him on.
“You got that right. Nancy dropped out of college. Back then girls got raped, they felt ashamed. Nowadays they brag about it on TV and get big bucks. But not back then. They were football players. BMOC Nancy called them. Big Men On Campus. She said Gates was the ringleader, but all the girls liked him cuz he was handsome and played on the football team. After Nancy reported them, students would yell at her and call her a slut, you believe that?”
“That's disgusting.” Darin said. Tell me more!
“Goddamn right it's disgusting. But Nancy was lucky. Gates raped her roommate, too, hurt her so bad she died. Nancy was sure Gates did it, but the cops never charged him.”
“He killed her?”
“Damn straight he killed her. But nobody saw it. The poor girl was dead by the time they found her. She bled to death. It was brutal.”
“What a bastard,” Darin said. “He shouldn't be allowed to live.”
“You find out where he lives, I'll go there with my shotgun and shoot him myself.”
“What was the roommate's name?” Darin said, and held his breath.
“Gwendolyn. I forget her last name. I'd ask Nancy, but I don't wanna upset her, you know? She still has flashbacks sometimes.”
“No problem, Albert. You've been a big help. I've got your number. If my sister's lawyer needs to talk to you, I'll have him call you.” Like hell he would.
“My pleasure,” Albert said. “I hope you nail the sonofabitch.”
Darin ended the call and pumped his fist. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected this! Now he had two names. Nancy and Gwendolyn.
_____
Tormented by indecision, Donna stood at the kitchen counter. Unlike her designer kitchen with the marble counters and stainless-steel appliances, this one was old-fashioned and had never been remodeled. The linoleum, a multicolored spatter pattern, was worn down to the bare wood in places, but Lenny had painted the cabinets pale tangerine, the glossy paint glowing in the rays of sunlight slanting through the kitchen window. Normally she found the room cheery. Not today.
Robbie was dead. She couldn't imagine ever feeling cheerful again.
An old-fashioned rotary phone was mounted on the wall but it wasn't connected. René and Lenny used cellphones. She powered up the stolen cellphone. Only two bars on the power indicator. Earlier, she'd tried to use Lenny's charger, but it didn't work, and René had his charger with him on the ship. She punched in a number. Please be home, Mom.
After the third ring, her mother answered, sounding like she was out of breath. “Hello.”
At the sound of her mother’s voice, Donna's throat closed up and she couldn't speak.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Mom,” she said. “It's me.”
“Donna! You're alive! I've been so worried. Where are you?”
Having anticipated the question, Donna said, “Someplace safe. But Robbie ...” She clenched her teeth, trying not to scream. She couldn't afford to lose control now. “They killed Robbie.”
“Yes, and I'm sick over it. They're heartless bastards. Detective Renzi—he's in charge of the case—said Hunter paid the ransom. A million dollars. But something went wrong ...”
“Where's Robbie now?” She couldn't bear to say Where's his body?
“I had him taken to a funeral home in Luling. After they did the autopsy.”
Autopsy. Donna closed her eyes, imagining Robbie's lifeless body, lying on a cold stainless-steel table while someone cut into him. A sob wracked her.
Fighting for control, she said, “Mom, you have to postpone the funeral. René will be home on Friday.”
“Is that where you are? At his house?”
She held the phone away from her ear to check the power. Only one bar left now.
“Mom, I can't talk long, the power's almost gone. Can you hear me?”
“Barely. Why did you run away? Emily said you left her—”
“Mom, I'm pregnant. I can't go home. If Hunter finds out I'm pregnant, he'll kill me!”
Silence on the other end. “Mom? Did you hear me?”
More silence. She checked the power. The phone was dead.
_____
11:35 AM
Hunched over his desk, Frank sorted through the memo-slips they'd left him about tips that had come in on the hotline. David was at headquarters meeting with Detective Bob Trang. He hoped Trang could help them find Ponytail, because so far the hotline tips were worthless.
His cellphone rang. When he answered, Blanche said, “Frank, Donna called me! She's alive!”
His heart surged. He glanced at Kenyon who was talking on the phone.
“Hold on a second,” he said. He left the office, raced down the hall to Vobitch's office and tapped on the door.
“It's open,” Vobitch called. He went in and shut the door. From his desk, Vobitch raised an eyebrow.
Frank covered his cellphone and mouthed: Donna called her mother. Vobitch nodded and waved a hand: Talk to her.
“When did she call you, Blanche?” Frank said.
“Ten minutes ago. Jesus, Frank, I was afraid they killed her too.”
“What did she say?”
“She's very distraught about Robbie. I told her Hunter paid the ransom, but something went wrong and they killed Robbie.”
Fighting the guilt that tormented him whenever he thought about Robbie, Frank said, “Did she tell you anything about the kidnappers?”
>
“No. She asked me where Robbie was. I told her I had one of the funeral homes in Luling pick him up and bring him here. She wants me to postpone the funeral.”
Signaling Vobitch, Frank said, “Postpone the funeral? Why?”
“She said René would be home on Friday. She wants him to help with the arrangements, I guess. I asked her if she was at his house, but she didn't say. Frank, if I knew where he lived, I'd tell you.”
“Okay, Blanche. I believe you. What else did she say?”
“When I asked her why she left Emily alone at the store—” Blanche's voice hitched in a sob.
“What?” Frank said.
“She told me she's pregnant.”
“Donna's pregnant?” he said, and saw Vobitch's eyes widen.
“Yes. She said she’s afraid to go home. If Hunter finds out she's pregnant, he'll kill her.”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing. I mean, she might have, but her cellphone ran out of power.”
“What number did she call you from?” Frank stepped closer to the desk and held out his hand. Vobitch gave him a pen, and Frank wrote the number Blanche gave him on Vobitch's legal pad.
“Did she say when she was coming to see you? To make the funeral arrangements?”
“No. She just said René would be home on Friday.”
“Okay. Thanks for letting me know. If you hear from her again, call me right way.”
The instant Frank ended the call, Vobitch said, “Christ on a crutch, she's pregnant?”
“Yes. That's why she ran away. She's afraid if she goes home, Gates will kill her.”
“Nothing like a cuckolded husband with guns to scare the shit out of a woman,” Vobitch said. “If she's screwing around, you'd think she'd be smart enough to use birth control.”
“Birth control's not foolproof. Maybe she forgot to take her pills. René will be home on Friday. He works on a cruise ship out of Miami.”
“She’s not in in Miami. How would she get there? A hundred bucks in the purse she stole at Whole Foods, and she couldn't use the credit cards. The woman canceled them right away.”
Frank tapped the phone number on the legal pad. “Probably used the stolen cellphone to call Blanche, but the power was low and she doesn't have a charger. Forget tracing her that way.”
Vobitch took a bite out of the half-eaten sugar doughnut on his desk. “Juliana says I gotta lose fifteen pounds, afraid I'll have a heart attack or some fuckin thing. Makes me do a two-mile walk every morning, I come home, she hands me a strawberry-banana smoothie. What the fuck is that? She's been thin as a stick since the day she was born. I'm built like a rhinoceros.”
Frank laughed. “Too bad you don't have the hide to match.”
His phone rang and Vobitch grimaced. “I got one when I need it, like now.” He picked up and growled, “Vobitch.” He listened for a while and said, “We have no information on that. … No, I can't comment on an ongoing investigation.” He slammed down the phone. “Christ, I get the same fucking questions over and over, oughta put a statement on my voice-mail for these reporters. They keep asking about Donna, not that I tell them anything. She's not in Miami, Frank, and René isn't our first priority. We want Ponytail.”
“David's at headquarters talking to Detective Trang, a liaison officer in the Intelligence Unit. He works with the Vietnamese community, might have some CIs. Maybe he'll find us a lead.”
“David's a good kid,” Vobitch said. “Smart. Works hard. Glad we got him in the homicide unit.”
“So am I. He was a big help at the church when we talked to the Vietnamese great-grandmother.”
“Too bad that didn't work out. Tell David to focus on drug deals. Sweets thought there were drugs in the suitcase.”
“You think Ponytail is a dealer?”
“Could be,” Vobitch said. “What about Gates? Is he off the hook?”
“Not in my mind, he isn't. I think I should go over there and see how Emily's doing, don't you?”
Vobitch smiled. “Definitely. But don't take CC with you. She reports to Walsh, Walsh reports to Gates, and that prick reports to nobody. Got more dough than the King of Saudi Arabia.”
“And guns,” Frank said. “Don't forget the guns.”
CHAPTER 30
THURSDAY – 12:20 PM
Crouched beside a battered black-paneled van on Orleans Avenue, Darin peeked around the bumper and spotted Sweets ambling along the sidewalk, his face blissful as he bit into a Devil Dog. Jesus, his thighs were so fat the legs of his pants rubbed together.
Darin rose from his squat and pounced. “Yo, Sweets, how you doing?”
“Ahhh!” Sweets gasped, his throat working to swallow the food in his mouth. “You scared me!”
“Thought I'd pay you a visit, see what you told the cops.” Darin took a butcher knife with a three-inch blade out of the leather sheath on his belt.
“Didn't tell them nothin! Hadda get my brother to bail me out.”
“Tell me what you said.” He flicked the knife.
Sweets waved his hands, agitated. “Didn’t tell ‘em nothin! Just said some guy axed me to pick up a suitcase behind that store on Esplanade.”
“They ask you who I was?”
“Yeah, kept me in a stinking little room for an hour. But I didn't rat you out! Said I didn't know who you was, didn’t even know your name.”
“Good. I find out you did, you're dead. They find the baggie with the coke?”
“Yeah. In my car.” Sweets screwed up his face, a mournful expression. “Kept the coke, kept my Mustang, too. I wanna go anyplace now, I gotta walk. Hell if I know when I get it back.”
With his free hand, Darin reached in his pocket and pulled out a dime-bag of coke. He hated to part with his own stash, but he needed a favor. “Maybe this'll help you forget the fuckin' cops.”
Sweets reached for the bag, but Darin pulled it back. “Need a favor first. I need a piece, figured you know somebody'd sell me one.” Pointing up Orleans Avenue, he said, “You know a dude like that somewhere around here? A guy can keep his mouth shut, not give me a buncha shit?”
“Maybe,” Sweets said, his eyes wary.
Darin lowered the knife and stuffed the baggie in his pocket. “Good. Let's go see him. You introduce me, make things go smooth, you get the coke and we're square.”
Sweets dropped the Devil Dog in the gutter and started walking with his head down, Darin marching along beside him. Two blocks up, Sweets turned onto a side street lined with ramshackle houses, some of them abandoned, plywood nailed over the windows. Fourth house on the left, Sweets lumbered up three steps. Weather-beaten boards covered the windows on either side of a red door with a peep-hole. Sweets tapped on the door.
“Who dat?” said a deep, authoritative voice.
“Sweets. Got a customer for you.”
Darin heard three locks turn. The door opened and a huge black man stood there, the biggest black man he'd ever seen, six-six, had to weigh 300 pounds. He was wearing a T-shirt and jockey shorts, and a big frown.
“Why you come here so early? Wake me up.”
“Sorry, Mr. Big. My friend's in a hurry, wants to buy a piece.”
Mr. Big focused on Darin, his lips curling into what passed for a smile. “Where you find this one, Sweets? Chink half-breed no bigger'n a flea, looks like he still in kindergarten.”
Darin gripped the handle of the knife. If he'd been any closer, he'd cut the motherfucker to ribbons. “What the fuck do you care? I got money.”
“Heh, heh, heh,” rumbled Mr. Big. “You a tourist, boy? Got so much dough, need a piece to protect yo'self?”
“Got enough to buy a motherfucking gun. Provided you got what I want.”
Mr. Big scowled. “Get in here 'fore I shut the door in yo face.”
Darin followed Sweets into a barren room, the walls lined with metal sheeting, no carpet, just a wood floor, the only furniture a king-sized bed with tangled sheets. The room was sweltering—no air conditionin
g—and smelled of fried meat and cigarette smoke.
“Put the fuckin' knife away and tell me what kinda piece you want. Shotgun? Semi-automatic? Rifle? AK-47?” Mr. Big smiled, showing yellow, nicotine-stained teeth. “We got a nice assortment.”
“The biggest handgun you got. One shot knocks a guy on his ass.”
Mr. Big measured him with his eyes. “Got just the piece for a pipsqueak like you, Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. One shot put most any motherfucker down. How much cash you got?”
Anger clogged his throat. The big black bastard was playing him. “Need to see it first.”
“Wait here,” said Mr. Big, and left the room.
“Careful,” Sweets whispered. “Get him riled up, he might kill you.”
“Yeah? He kills me, he don't get no money.”
Sweets looked at him, somber-eyed. “Take it off yo' dead body.”
Mr. Big strolled back in the room, wearing baggy jeans now, and held up a gun. “Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum with a three inch barrel. Load it up with hollow points, give it some kick, that takes care of your problem.”
“You got ammo for it?” Darin asked.
Mr. Big raised the gun and aimed it at him. “Fully loaded now. Want me show you?”
Darin stared at the hole in the end of the stainless-steel barrel, his heart racing with fear. But damned if he'd back down from this prick.
“Cut the crap. Give you seven hundred for it.”
Mr. Big whooped a raucous laugh. “Seven hundred? Piss off, pal. Might pay that at some legit gun shop, but you don't wanna do that. You wanna buy a piece, don't wanna have to show your DL to some guy, have him dial up NCIC, check your priors. Am I right?”
Cursing Sweets for bringing him here, cursing Mr. Big for his smart-ass remarks, Darin said, “How much you want for it?”
“Twelve-hundred.”
“Give you a grand. That's all I got.”
Mr. Big smiled. “Go get some more. I be here all day.”
Darin took the plastic baggie out of his pocket. “Give you the grand and a bag of coke.”
