Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6

by Susan Fleet

  “Hey,” Sweets said. “That's 'sposed to be—”

  “Shut up, Sweets.” Mr. Big took the bag, went over to the king-sized bed and laid the revolver on the pillow. He opened the baggie, wet his forefinger, stuck it in the coke, touched his finger to his tongue and smiled.

  “Where you get this, boy? This be good shit.”

  “Can’t tell you,” Darin said. “I never rat on people. Won't rat on you, neither. Forget where this house is after I leave. Gimme the gun and a box of them hollow-points. You take the coke and the grand.”

  “Just kiddin ‘bout the full load, boy. Hold on while I get the ammo.” Taking the baggie of coke and revolver with him, Mr. Big left the room.

  Sweets turned on him and hissed, “That coke 'sposed to be mine!”

  “Relax,” Darin said. “I'll get your damn coke for you later.”

  Mr. Big returned with a box of ammo and the revolver. “Show me the money.”

  Darin pulled a wad of fifties out of his pocket and peeled them off one at a time, counting aloud, and handed them to Mr. Big, who stuffed them into his pocket. “Brought y'all a bag to carry it in.” Mr. Big pulled a Walgreen's plastic bag out of his pocket. “Don’t want some cop to see you carrying heavy-duty firepower and bust you.”

  Darin hefted the gun, put it in the plastic bag with the box of ammo and headed for the door.

  Behind him, Mr. Big chuckled and said, “Good luck with yo’ problem.”

  _____

  12:45 PM

  When Frank parked in front of the garage, Hunter's black SUV sat in the middle bay, his red Corvette sitting beside it. The space for Donna's Honda was vacant. Maybe the kidnappers still had it. But at least Donna was alive, hiding from Gates, afraid that he'd kill her if he found out she was pregnant.

  Frank saw lights in the dining room as he went up the walk to the door and rang the bell. Dressed in dark slacks and a light-weight tweed jacket, Gates opened the door. “What do you want? I'm busy right now. I'm working from home so I can stay close to Emily.”

  Suppressing his irritation, Frank said, “I'm glad you got Emily back, but I want to find the kidnappers. And Robbie's killer. I've got a few questions, shouldn't take long.”

  Gates glanced at his watch. “I've got a conference call at one, but I'll give you fifteen minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes. Was he supposed to thank the bastard for deigning to speak to him? Like hell.

  Gates took him in the dining room and stood behind the chair that faced his laptop. On the table beside the computer, a pen and a notepad lay beside a glass of amber liquid. Was it a highball or iced tea?

  Frank gestured at the laptop. “Did you get another ransom demand?”

  Gates's icy-blue eyes widened slightly. Then his eyes shifted away. Big Lie coming up. “Frank, the kidnapping is over.”

  “Maybe you didn't get another ransom demand because you set the whole thing up.”

  “I did no such thing!” Gates exclaimed, an angry flush mottling his cheeks. “You've got a helluva nerve, making an accusation like that.”

  “You got what you wanted. Emily. I want to find Robbie's killer. Don't you?”

  “What are you doing to find my wife?”

  Frank heard little feet pounding down the stairs, followed by slower, heavier footsteps. Emily burst into the room. “Daddy! Linda invited me to come over and play. Can I? Pretty please?” she said, aiming her beguiling smile at her father. Then, she realized Daddy wasn't alone. “Oh. Hi, Mr. Frank. I didn't know you were here.”

  “Hi, Emily. Looks like you've got lots of energy today. You must have had a good sleep.”

  “I did.” Emily beamed him a smile. “I slept in my own bed and when I got up I took a nice hot bath and Juanita shampooed my hair.” She fluffed her blond curls and gestured at the woman in the doorway. “Juanita, this is Mr. Frank. He's a policeman.”

  In her mid-fifties with cafe-au-lait complexion, Juanita wore black slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a wedding band on her left hand. “Happy to meet you, Mr. Frank,” she said in a soft voice, her dark eyes somber. Not letting on that they'd spoken two days ago on the phone.

  “My pleasure,” he said. “Glad to see you're taking good care of Emily.”

  “Can I go over to Linda's house, Daddy? Pleeeeeze?”

  Gates swept her up in his arms and kissed her cheek. “Not today, Princess. I'm so glad to have you home, I don't want to let you out of my sight.” He set her down and said, “Tell you what. Tomorrow I'll take you and Linda out for a special lunch.”

  “Yeaaa!” Emily exclaimed. “Can we go to that place you took me for my birthday last year?”

  “We'll talk about it later after I call Linda's mother. Juanita, take Emily upstairs to the TV room and let her watch a movie.”

  Juanita looked at Frank, sending him a message with her eyes though he couldn't decipher it. Imploring him to find Emily's mother? Protect her from Gates? Maybe he was imagining this, projecting his own wishes onto her.

  She nodded to Gates, not quite a bow but close. “Yes, sir, Mr. Gates. Come on Emily.”

  Gates watched them go up the stairs, then turned on Frank, his eyes cold, his mouth set in a grim line. “Why haven't you found my wife? Did you put out an APB? Put a BOLO out on her car?”

  “No,” Frank said. “She hasn't committed any crime.” Unless she'd sent the ransom email, which he doubted.

  “Like hell she hasn't! She left Emily in a store and disappeared!”

  Frank almost told him to get Walsh to find her, decided against it. “My job is to find Robbie's killer. You got any enemies? Someone who might want to harm you and your family?”

  “Frank, they wanted a million dollars. I tried to pay them, but you fucked up the drop. Do your job and find my wife.”

  My wife. Like Donna was one of his possessions. Frank wanted to find her, but his primary goal was to find Robbie's killer. Mickey Mouse, aka Ponytail.

  His cellphone rang. He checked the ID. Raven Woodson. “I need to take this.” He walked over to the dining room window, turned his back to Gates and answered. “Renzi.”

  “Frank,” Raven said. “I talked to my contact in Texas and I've got big news for you!”

  “Good,” he said curtly. “Can I call you back?”

  “Don't fluff me off, Frank. You need to hear this.”

  Damn. He couldn't talk to her in front of Gates. Recalling Vobitch's ploy, he said, “Thank you for that information.”

  Silence on the other end. Then, “Oh. You can't talk now?”

  “Correct,” he said, and ended the call.

  He turned and got the shock of his life.

  A snub-nosed revolver was aimed at his heart.

  His stomach clenched reflexively and sweat dampened his palms. Small gun, big muzzle bore. One shot would knock him off his feet, might even kill him. His SIG was in a holster at the small of his back. No sense reaching for it. If he did, Gates might shoot him.

  He analyzed Gates's body language, arms rigid, feet spread in a shooters stance, forefinger on the trigger. But his eyes would reveal his intent, and his eyes were chilling. If looks could kill, he'd be dead.

  His heart was racing like an out-of-control train, his mind scrabbling for a way out. Gates was egotistical as hell. Why not challenge him?

  “You want to shoot an unarmed man? Not very sporting of you.”

  “Go for your gun,” Gates said, his eyes cold and ruthless. “I dare you.”

  “Why? So you'll have an excuse to kill me? Your nanny hears a gunshot, she'll call the cops.”

  “She'll do what I tell her to do.”

  “Put the fucking gun down,” Frank snapped. “Your daughter's upstairs.”

  “Lucky for you she is. You could have gotten her killed. Like Robbie.”

  An obvious taunt to make him feel guilty. Gates was baiting him, but why? Was he asking questions that hit too close to home? Maybe you set the whole thing up. Or was something else bothering him? He seemed agitated,
hands trembling, his eyes demonic.

  “You won't shoot me, Hunter. You've got too many problems already. I don't know what they are, but I'm going to find out.”

  “Fuck you, Renzi. Get out.” Gates gestured at the door with the revolver in his left hand. His shooting hand.

  Frank sidestepped out of the dining room. No way was he turning his back on the fucker.

  Holding the gun in both hands, Gates followed him to the door.

  He opened it and said, “You know a Vietnamese woman named Rose?”

  “No,” Gates snarled. “Get out of my house!”

  CHAPTER 31

  Enraged, Gates went to the window, raised his Defender and drew a bead on Renzi's back as he walked to his car. The nerve of the bastard, accusing him of putting his family in harm's way! He would never do anything to jeopardize Emily's safety.

  When Renzi asked if he had any enemies, he'd almost laughed. What a joke! He'd made plenty of enemies since he'd left that shitty little farm in California, but none of them would dare threaten him, much less kidnap his family. He'd made sure of that.

  He didn't know who was blackmailing him, but if the bastard thought he could get away with it, he was in for a surprise. He watched Renzi drive away, recalling his parting shot: Do you know a Vietnamese woman named Rose?

  Hell, he'd fucked so many Asian prostitutes he couldn’t remember their names. When it came to sex, he preferred Asian women. They were submissive and eager to please. Unlike his wife.

  When Donna refused to do certain things, he had to persuade her. He hefted the Defender. Five killer rounds in the cylinder. Guns gave you the power to make people do what you wanted. That's why his business was so successful. Everybody wanted a gun.

  He didn't know where Donna was, but she'd come crawling back to him eventually. When she did, they would consummate their reunion in the bedroom, with his Defender.

  Right now he had other problems to solve. He ran down his mental checklist. Tell his PR man to write a speech for his press conference. Figure out how to keep the reporters off his back. Deflect any questions about Donna and Robbie's funeral. Jesus, the kid was dead and still causing him problems.

  Donna's brat. Her first husband dumped her when he found out Robbie wasn't his kid. If she ever pulled something like that on him, he'd make her wish she'd never been born.

  He sighted down the barrel of the revolver at the squirrel on the lawn outside his dining room window. Too bad it wasn't the blackmailer. No, forget shooting him. He wanted to tie him up, cut off his dick, stuff it in his mouth and watch him bleed to death.

  That's what the wops and the spics did. They knew how to hurt people.

  “Fuck!” He glanced at the stairs. He'd forgotten Emily was upstairs watching TV. He holstered the Defender and read the email message on his laptop again. Bring $6M cash to your office Friday night or I'll tell them about Nancy and Gwendolyn.

  Sweat dampened his palms. How did the bastard find out about Gwendolyn? If that story got out he was finished. Forget running for Senator. He wouldn't get elected dogcatcher.

  And the prick wanted an answer. Email me right away or I'll call a reporter.

  He hit Reply and typed: Can't get $6M by Friday. Come to my office Saturday night at 7PM. I'll have it then.

  He hit Send and clenched his jaw. Damned if he'd give the prick six million dollars of his hard-earned money. No one would be at Hunter Firearms at seven on a Saturday night. He already had a million in cash.

  He'd take it to his office, show it to the motherfucker and blindside him with his Defender. He'd show the sonofabitch.

  No one blackmailed Hunter Gates. No one.

  _____

  “Fucking asshole!” Cursing all the way, Frank drove to the mini-mall in Lakeview three blocks from the Gates house. His pulse, heart-rate and blood pressure were still off the chart.

  He parked beside a red Jeep Cherokee in the back row of the parking lot. Ahead of him beside a hair salon was Lola's Coffee House, but caffeine wasn't what he needed right now. A belt of scotch was more like it, something to soothe his gut-wrenching fear when Gates pulled the gun on him.

  Over the years he'd been shot at least a dozen times. Three times he'd been hit. Getting shot was no picnic. This time he'd dodged a bullet, but sooner or later his luck might run out.

  He took out his cellphone and hit a number on his speed-dial. When Vobitch answered, Frank said, “You got anybody in your office?”

  “No. What's up?”

  “I just left Gate's house. He pulled a gun on me.”

  “That motherfucker! I should send a SWAT team over there right now. What happened?”

  “When I hinted he might be mixed up in the kidnapping, he went ballistic. Then I got a call from Raven, the investigative reporter who gave me the tip. I turned away to answer it, said I'd call her back. When I turned around, Gates was holding a snub-nosed revolver aimed at my heart.”

  “Un-fucking-believable. What did he say?”

  “Told me to go for my gun, like he was daring me. I reminded him that his daughter was upstairs with the nanny, Juanita Gonzales. Long story short, I called his bluff and left.”

  “Jesus, Frank. He's got the girl. What's his gripe with you?”

  “He wants me to find his wife, but I think something else is bugging him. He seemed agitated from the get-go. Maybe something I said put him over the edge. The look in his eyes when he drew down on me? I've seen stone-cold killers with eyes like that.”

  “Maybe he hired the kidnappers and they're squeezing him for more money.”

  “Ponytail, maybe, but not Donald Duck. He let Emily and Donna go.”

  “No honor among thieves, Frank. Maybe that wasn't part of the plan. Ponytail figures Gates has got plenty of dough, why not grab some of it? What’s he got to lose?”

  “Gates could rat on him.”

  “Or kill him. Better stay clear of Gates for a while. What did Raven give you?”

  “I'm about to call her now. Talk to you later.” He went in the coffee shop, filled with the buzz of coffee machines and chattering young mothers seated in booths or at tables with kids in strollers beside them. The coffee smelled great, but his throat was parched and his mouth tasted sour. He bought a big bottled water, went back to his car, drank some water and called Raven.

  “Thanks for calling me back, Frank. When I called, you were with someone, right?

  “Gates. It was a little tense.”

  “He must be feeling the heat. Zen-Ten, our early morning guy, was with some reporters outside his house this morning. Gates came out with a shotgun and told them to leave or he'd have them arrested. He didn't say for what. They weren't on his property.”

  Frank sipped some water, assessing her words. News of the shotgun and Gates's threat would be circulating all over town. Gates, the control-freak, was losing it. But why?

  “What have you got for me?”

  “My contact at STU got me the gang-rape victim's name. Nancy Pasquarelli. But when I called the Alumni Office to find out how to contact her, they said she dropped out and left strict orders not to release her information to anyone.”

  “She's scared. Maybe somebody threatened her.” Like Hunter Gates

  “Wouldn't surprise me. My source dug up an old story about the gang-rape. It didn't identify the victim, just said she was from Muscatine, Iowa. But here's the juicy part. Nine months after Nancy got raped, her roommate was murdered. The case was never solved.”

  Stunned, Frank said nothing. Coincidence? Maybe, but when it came to crimes like this, he didn't believe in coincidences.

  “What's her name?”

  “Gwendolyn Squire. She was a cheerleader, but I couldn't get any details about the case. The college put a lid on it, like they did with the gang-rape. But my contact said the campus police officer in charge of the case still works there. You want his name and number?”

  “Definitely.” He wrote the name and number in his notepad. “Thanks, Raven. You're a peach.”r />
  She laughed. “No, I'm a basketball player. So. You got anything for me?”

  Frank hesitated. “Yes, but you have to promise not to use it until I give the okay.”

  “I promise. What have you got?”

  “Donna's not home with Gates, but she's alive.”

  “Thank goodness for that. Where is she?”

  “I don't know. I can't tell you how I know she's alive either, but trust me, she is.”

  “She's hiding,” Raven said. “From her husband.

  “You didn't hear that from me. Gotta go, Raven. Stay away from Gates. He's dangerous.”

  He closed his cellphone and guzzled some water. Gates was one of the football players Nancy Pasquarelli had accused of the gang-rape in 1982. Nine months later, her roommate, Gwendolyn Squire, was murdered and the case was still open. Nancy was hiding, and so was Donna.

  Maybe they were hiding from the same man: Hunter Gates.

  His cellphone rang, calls swarming him like killer bees. Better than bullets.

  When he answered, Claudia Cohen said in an angry voice, “Why didn't you tell me about the cross DeMayo found in Robbie's pocket?”

  “Good morning to you, too,” he said. Silence on the other end.

  “I got DeMayo's report the same as you did,” he said.

  “No. You got it before I did. I talked to the priest at the Vietnamese church in Metairie. He said you were there yesterday.”

  Damn! His lies of omission had come back to haunt him. “If we got anything, I'd have told you, but we didn't. Good lead, dead end.”

  “Why do I not believe you?”

  “I can tell you this. Donna Lee is alive. She called her mother, but she wouldn't say where she was. She's hiding.”

  “From Gates?”

  “That's what I assume. You want to meet later and talk about it?”

  “Yes. How about Lola's Coffee Shop in Lakeview?”

  Looking at Lola's through the windshield, Frank smiled. “Fine. Meet me there at four o'clock. In the meantime, don't go near Hunter Gates. I just left his house. He pulled a gun on me.”

  “What???”

  “Tell you all about it when I see you.”