Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6

by Susan Fleet

  “Mickey Mouse dragged me to my car and held a wet cloth over my nose. The next thing I knew, I woke up in a room by myself. They locked us up in separate rooms. Me and Emily and Robbie. It was awful. I was out of my mind, worrying about them.”

  René massaged his eyes and stood. “You want a beer?”

  “No. You go ahead.” Beer? She wanted something far stronger to get her through this, a shot of whisky, maybe. But she couldn't drink any alcohol. She was pregnant.

  René went in the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Abita Dark. He perched on the coffee table in front of her, drank some beer and said, “Who let you go? Describe him.”

  “Donald Duck. He’s a big black man, six-four at least, brawny and muscular. He always wore the mask. Two nights ago he came in my room with Emily and said he was letting us go. I asked him where Robbie was, but he wouldn't tell me. Twice I asked him.”

  René said nothing, just tipped back the bottle and drank some beer.

  “I told him I wasn't leaving without Robbie, but he said if I didn't shut up, he'd lock us back in the rooms.” René kept looking at her, saying nothing. “I did! I swear it! Ask Emily.”

  He stared into space for a moment, then gently cupped her face with his long-fingered piano-player hands. “I don't need to ask Emily. I believe you. Robbie was already dead. The scumbags put him in a trash bag and threw him in a dumpster like a piece of garbage!”

  Her throat hitched and her eyes filled with tears. Resolutely, she blinked them back. She couldn't afford to break down now. If she started crying, she might never stop. “Donald Duck didn't kill him. It was the other one. Mickey Mouse. He was ruthless.”

  Expressionless, René guzzled more beer. “What did he look like?”

  “Shorter than Donald Duck, but he's strong. He picked me up and put me in the trunk of my car. He's not black like Donald Duck, but he's got long black hair, pulled into a ponytail.”

  “What about the house? You got any idea where it was?”

  “Somewhere in Kenner near the airport. I heard planes flying over the house day and night.”

  René set the beer bottle on the coffee table beside him. Gazing at her, his dark eyes intent on hers, he said, “Did they touch you? Molest you?”

  “No. They never laid a finger on me. Well, Donald Duck put a blindfold over my eyes. He made me put one on Emily, too, before he took us out of the house.”

  “What did the house look like?”

  “I don't know. It was dark out. But while he was putting Emily in the back seat, I lifted the blindfold and took a quick peek. His car was parked on the left side of the house in front of a garage. The garage door was partly open and I could see my car.”

  “Excellent!” René stood. “You sure you don't want a beer?”

  She grabbed his hands. “René, please sit down. I've got something important to tell you.”

  He perched on the coffee table, frowning at her now. “What?”

  The words tumbled out in a rush. “I'm pregnant. That's why I left Emily in the store and ran away. I'm afraid to go home. If Hunter finds out I'm pregnant, he'll kill me.” She squeezed his hands. “It's not his baby, it's yours.”

  René’s lips parted in a tentative smile. “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I don't know how it happened. I've been getting the birth control shots.”

  “How do you know it's not Hunter's?”

  “We haven't had sex in weeks. I told you what he does, threatens me with his gun to make me do what he wants. The last time he did that, I told him if he ever did it again I'd tell the police.”

  Anger flashed in René's eyes. “He's a sick son-of-a-bitch. I don't know why you married him.”

  “Please. Let's not argue about that again. I was at my mother's house taking care of Robbie. You were in New York trying to get a record deal. But I wanted a career, too. And I needed money. So I got a job doing news for WWXL in New Orleans and then I met Hunter.”

  “The rich bastard from hell. He treated Robbie like shit, you said so yourself. He wanted a kid of his own and a good-looking wife beside him when he ran for City Council. He used you! And now he's got Emily. That's what he wanted all along.”

  “No. I'm his possession, too. He won't rest until he finds me. I'm afraid of him.” Pleading now, she said, “Let's run away, just pack up and leave town. Think of the baby. Your baby, René. It won't make up for losing Robbie, but it's something positive to be happy about after this hideous ordeal.”

  René got up and went in the kitchen. She heard a cupboard door slam, then a drawer. Moments later, he came back in the living room, grim-faced, holding his car keys in his left hand. His right hand held a gun.

  Her heart slammed her chest. “What are you doing with a gun?”

  He smiled, but his eyes were cold. “We're going to Kenner and find the house where they kept you. I'm gonna find the bastard that killed Robbie and shoot him.”

  _____

  4:30 PM

  Agitated, Gates paced his second floor office at Hunter Firearms. Ordinarily he loved being here. The business was his greatest achievement. He'd bought it at a bankruptcy sale, a run-down, one-story gun manufacturing plant in an industrial park in New Orleans East. Three years later, thanks to his hard work, keen marketing skills and business acumen, Hunter Firearms was making money.

  Damned if he'd let a fucking blackmailer ruin it.

  After modernizing the manufacturing plant, he'd constructed an L-shaped building beside it. The long leg housed a one-story warehouse with a loading dock. But the two-story office suite in the short leg was his pride and joy. He had designed it himself. A breathtaking two-story atrium on the ground floor soared to an arched-glass ceiling. Above the foyer on the second floor, offices lined a square hallway. His was the best, a corner room with a double-wide window overlooking the visitor parking area.

  The room wasn't large, only fourteen feet square, but the royal-blue carpeting and pale-oak paneling impressed important clients. An elegant, eight-foot-long mahogany desk faced the door. To the right of the desk, built-in book shelves lined the wall. Along the opposite wall, plush easy chairs were grouped around a mahogany coffee table.

  He often sat there to relax with his coffee or something stronger when the situation warranted. Above the mini-refrigerator beside the door, a cabinet held ceramic coffee mugs, cut-crystal glasses and bottled liquor. Jack Daniels or Southern Comfort, when he was in a celebratory mood. But not today.

  Damn it to hell! He'd been here an hour and he still hadn't figured out how to kill the blackmailer. Well, killing him wasn't the issue. Getting away with it was the problem. When he shot the bastard, there would be blood. He couldn't cover the carpet with plastic sheeting. His desk and the other furniture were too heavy to lift.

  He turned to the window and clenched his fists. He wanted to punch out the glass, smash it to smithereens. There had to be a solution, dammit.

  He took out his Defender. Guns had always fascinated him. Guns, fast cars and kinky sex. His downfall. Twenty-eight years ago after Gwendolyn rejected him, he'd killed her in a fit of rage.

  Stop acting like a farm-boy, Hunter. Show some class and act like a gentleman.

  Even now her taunt infuriated him. He put the Defender on the desk, fell to the floor and did twenty push-ups, counting aloud to drown out her words. He did twenty more and sprang to his feet. Not bad. Forty-six years old and not even breathing hard.

  He took a bottle of Heineken out of the mini-fridge, twisted off the top and drained it, turning the problem over in his mind as if it were a riddle.

  How to get away with murder.

  He'd seen enough crime shows on TV to know it wouldn't be easy. But he had to get rid of this blackmailer.

  Pay up or I'll tell the cops about Nancy and Gwendolyn.

  If word got out about his troubles at STU, it would kill his political ambitions. It might even destroy the business. And he sure as hell didn't want the cops in Texas to reopen the case
.

  First the cocksucker had kidnapped his wife and children. Now he was blackmailing him. His beloved Emily was home, safe and sound, but Donna wasn't.

  And out of the blue, the solution came to him.

  Euphoric, he pumped his fist and a giddy laugh burst from his mouth.

  People were already on his side. Someone had kidnapped his wife and children and murdered his step-son. Why not give them something else to win their sympathy? A man claiming to have evidence of Donna's sexual indiscretions wanted money to keep quiet about it. When he refused to pay him, the man came to his office and shot at him.

  What could he do? He had to defend himself. He shot the man and killed him. Everyone would understand.

  A southern gentleman always defended his wife's honor.

  He went to his desk and opened the bottom left-hand drawer. Another revolver was hidden there, unregistered, no serial number. After he shot the blackmailer with his Defender, he'd put the unregistered gun in the bastard's hand and shoot a couple of holes in the wall behind his desk.

  And no one would be the wiser.

  CHAPTER 37

  FRIDAY – 6:15 PM

  Donna stared out the window as René stopped at a red light on the corner of Williams Boulevard in Kenner. They'd been driving around for an hour, but they hadn't seen her car. That was a relief. She didn't want to find the house. She was afraid of what René might do if they did.

  “Williams Boulevard has a lot of traffic lights,” he said. “Can you remember how many times the car stopped?”

  “No.”

  “Think, Donna. It would help narrow the search.”

  “I don't remember! I wasn't paying attention. I was just relieved to get out of there with Emily.”

  René looked at her. He didn't say anything, but she knew what he was thinking. Without Robbie.

  When the light turned green, he turned north on Williams and got in the left lane. The left turn arrow at the next corner was green. He turned left and slowly drove down the street, heading west into the glare of the setting sun, an orange-red ball on the horizon.

  She dug her nails into her palms. “What are you going to do if we find the house?”

  “You'll see. Look for a house with a garage on your side of the street.”

  “Okay. But we need to talk about Robbie's funeral. Let's have a private memorial service, no announcement in the papers. Just you and me and my mother.”

  “What about Emily? Won't she want to be there?”

  “Yes, but I don't want to deal with Hunter. I don't want him to know when it will be. Or where. I was thinking we could have some music.”

  “That would be good, yeah.” But he wasn't paying attention, staring at the houses, focused on finding the kidnapper. So he could kill him.

  “René, this is crazy. Forget the kidnappers. After the memorial service, let's go somewhere and start a new life. California, or Las Vegas, maybe. There's plenty of music in Vegas.”

  “Yeah. Honky-tonk bullshit. And if you got a television gig, people might recognize you.”

  “I could get a radio job. Work for NPR or something.”

  “Why don't you just divorce the asshole? Then you'd have Emily.”

  “Are you kidding? Hunter would never let her go. He'd want full custody and he's got the bucks to pay a high-powered lawyer to do it. I've already been through one ugly divorce. I don't have the strength to fight another one. Besides, if I got on the stand and told the judge about Hunter threatening me with his gun, it would be a huge scandal. I'd never live it down.”

  She clenched her hands in her lap to keep from scratching. The hives were back with a vengeance.

  That's what René wanted, vengeance, and it terrified her.

  He wouldn't look at her, gripping the wheel, his face tight with anger. The fact that he owned a gun, hidden now underneath his maroon windbreaker, blew her mind. “René, you're scaring me. You know I hate guns.”

  He reached over and caressed her cheek. “Don't worry, Donna. You know I'd never hurt you.”

  At the next intersection he turned right, heading north now. The drone of a low-flying airliner came through the windows. They had to be near the house. What would René do if they found it?

  She put a hand inside her shirt and touched her belly. René's baby was inside her, a tiny embryo now, but in a few months she would feel the baby's tiny feet kicking her. She could still remember how thrilled she was the first time Robbie did that. And when she felt this baby kick her, she didn't want René to be in jail facing a murder charge.

  “Can we go home now? I'm hungry. I'm eating for two now.”

  René didn't respond, just kept driving, staring at the houses. Men were so clueless. To them, pregnancy was an abstract concept. Eight months from now, he would hold a beautiful baby in his arms. But René was a jazz musician. His motto was play in the moment. That was one reason she loved him. He was a talented pianist, a sensitive man who cared deeply for her.

  He reached over and squeezed her hand. “What do you want for dinner? Want to stop for takeout, or shall I make us some seafood gumbo at home?”

  Relieved, she said, “Let's go home and make gumbo. We can stop at the Rouse supermarket on Vets Boulevard on the way. There's a payphone there. I need to call my mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Please, René, just do it, okay? We have to talk about the funeral.”

  Clenching his jaw, he drove to Williams Boulevard and got on the I-10. He took the Vets Boulevard exit and they drove to the supermarket in silence. When he pulled into Rouse's parking lot, he stopped at the far end, away from other cars. Puzzled she looked at him.

  He took three snapshots of Robbie out of his wallet. Over the past ten years, she'd given him dozens. Some she had mailed. Others she'd brought to Lenny's house when they met there, relishing René's delight when he saw them.

  “I can't decide which one I like best,” he said, tapping the photos one by one: Robbie at the beach, smiling and squinting in the sun; Robbie playing the electric keyboard in his room; Robbie beaming when he won the science award last year.

  “That's all I've got,” he said, gazing at her, his face working with emotion. “Pictures. I never even got to hold him.”

  The look on his face broke her heart. She pulled him closer and hugged him. “I'm sorry. I wanted him to meet you, but I was afraid—”

  “I know. You don't have to explain. God forbid Robbie should know who is real father is.”

  Tears stung her eyes and her throat thickened. “Let me call Mom. I already told her to postpone the funeral until you got home. You'll like her, René. She adored Robbie, and she hates Hunter.”

  “Glad to know we've got that in common.”

  “She lives in a log cabin, surrounded by woods.”

  That won her a faint smile. “Yeah? Far out.”

  “Let's go see her now so we can talk about—”

  “No. Not until I find the bastard who killed Robbie. Wear the baseball cap and the dark glasses when you call your mother.”

  He drove closer to the store and stopped beside a payphone to the right of the entrance. She scooped quarters out of the change holder in the console, put on the sunglasses, tugged the baseball cap down to hide her face and got out of the car.

  Avoiding the shoppers wheeling grocery carts out of the store, she went to the payphone, fighting back tears, hearing René's words in her mind.

  I never even got to hold him.

  She punched in her mother's number, fed eight quarters into the slot and heard the phone ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom, I can't talk long. I'm on a payphone and I don't have much change. René came home and he's devastated about Robbie. We're going to come to your house to talk about the funeral arrangements.”

  Silence. Then, “I look forward to meeting him. Are you coming now?”

  “No. He wants to find the house where the kidnappers kept us. I'm not sure where it is, but it's near the airport and my
car is still there.”

  “Oh. Well, if you find it, call the police and tell them where it is.”

  “Mom, you don't get it. René wants to kill them. He's got a gun.”

  _____

  7:15 PM

  Seated in their customary red leather booth at the rear of the Poorhouse Pub, Frank said to Vobitch, “René Picou doesn't have a Louisiana driver’s license. After I figured out his last name, I checked with RMV. No vehicle registered in his name, either.”

  Having escaped Juliana's diet regimen, Vobitch was munching pecan pie. They'd already eaten their burgers and the basket of sweet potato fries they'd shared. No worries about anyone overhearing their conversation. The joint was jumping with workers starting their weekend. A curvy blonde in a designer jeans and a blue tank top sat at the bar, wearing sandals with three-inch heels.

  “Check Florida RMV,” Vobitch said. “Maybe he's got a Florida DL, registers his car there.”

  “Good idea. Entergy had twenty accounts with the last name Picou, but I checked every address and got nothing. No René Picou, so I drove around Kenner hunting for Donna's Honda outside a shotgun. But sixty-five thousand people live in Kenner, hundreds of them in houses below the Louis Armstrong Airport flight path.”

  “A needle in a haystack.” Vobitch forked up the last bite of pecan pie and pushed the plate aside.

  “Exactly. Tomorrow morning David and Detective Trang have a meet with another CI of Trang’s. Maybe we'll get lucky and get a name for Ponytail.” Frank drank some beer. “You know a D-8 patrol cop named Sam Thompson?” Vobitch knew all the homicide detectives, but NOPD patrol cops only made it onto his radar at homicide scenes.

  “Name doesn't ring a bell. Remind me what he looks like.”

  “A big guy, played football for LSU. A black guy.”

  “A big black guy.” Vobitch frowned. “Like Donald Duck?”

  “Correct. Reason I ask, Sam came in the office this morning, asked Kenyon how the investigation was going, seemed a little antsy.”

  “Man, I'd hate to think one of the kidnappers is a cop. We got enough problems with dirty cops in this town, don't need something like this.”