Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6

by Susan Fleet

  “I agree. But when I asked if he knew a Vietnamese woman named Rose, Sam said he didn't, couldn't get out of the office fast enough.”

  “Fuck.” Vobitch raked his fingers through his mane of silvery hair. “What do you want to do?”

  “Easiest thing would be to put Kenyon on him. He and Tanya are friends with Sam and his wife. Maybe he could get Tanya to ask Sam's wife if he's been acting strange lately. But here's the thing. Kenyon's a great guy and we're good friends. I'm not sure he'd be down with that.”

  “Can you get Sam alone and lean on him? Ask him about Ponytail, tell him we know he let Donna and Emily go, and that would work in his favor.”

  Frank fingered the scar on his chin, considering. “I'd rather not chance it. All well and good if it worked. But if it didn't and he's involved, no telling what he'd do.”

  Vobitch shook his head. “This fucking case is driving me nuts.”

  “Join the club. We got René's last name, but we don't know where he lives or what car he's driving. We don't know Rose's last name, can't find Ponytail.”

  His cellphone rang. He checked the ID. Blanche Crochiere. When he answered, she said, “Frank, Donna just called me! She said René got home and he's very distraught about Robbie.”

  “Did she tell you where he lives? His last name is Picou. He's a piano player, right?”

  “I don't know. She never said what he did. How'd you get his last name?”

  “Long story.” To keep Vobitch in the loop, he said, “What else did Donna say?”

  “She said they were in Kenner looking for the house where they held her hostage. René is furious at them for killing Robbie. He wants to find the house and kill them. He's got a gun.”

  Frank locked eyes with Vobitch and said, “René's got a gun? That's all she said?”

  “She said they were going to come to my house so we could plan the funeral, but when I asked her when, she didn't say. That's when she told me about René and the gun.”

  He heard her light a cigarette. “Okay, Blanche. Thanks for calling me.”

  “Frank, I'm scared. What if they find the house and René confronts them with a gun?”

  “Do you know what kind of car he's driving?”

  “No.”

  “If Donna calls again, ask her. Try to find out where René lives and call me right away.”

  “I will. Jesus, Frank, I'm smoking like a chimney. Find them, will you?”

  “I'll try. Talk to you later.” He ended the call.

  Vobitch said, “So Donna and René are looking for Ponytail's house in Kenner. Maybe she knows something we don't.”

  “If she does, she didn't tell Blanche.”

  “But René's got a plan.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “A plan and a gun.”

  “Too bad he doesn’t he use it on Hunter Gates and make my day.”

  Frank laughed. “Mine too at this point. Let's hope David finds out who Ponytail is before René finds him. But here’s the good news. I got CC watching the Gates house.”

  “How'd you manage that? Use the Renzi lady-killer charm?” Vobitch jiving him.

  “Didn't have to. When she found out about the gang-rape and the cheerleader murder in Texas, she volunteered. As I recall, her exact words were: 'He's a prick and we need to nail him.'”

  Vobitch drained the last of his Glenlivet. “Glad to hear you're getting along with CC. Who's helping her? She can't watch the house by herself.”

  Frank grinned. “You're gonna love this. She interviewed his neighbor, an older retired woman. Turns out she's no fan of Hunter Gates, but she's a big fan of The X-Files.”

  “I love it,” Vobitch chortled. “A little old lady wants in on some FBI action?”

  “Correct. She's a widow, got nothing to do all day, practically begged CC to let her spy on him. CC says a window in a spare bedroom upstairs overlooks the Gates front yard. You can't see the garage, but you can see the end of the driveway. She’s there now. I talked to her before I came here.”

  “I hope CC told the woman how to maintain a surveillance log,” Vobitch said, deadpan, but fighting a smile.

  “Are you kidding? They teach that on The X-Files.”

  Vobitch went off, a raucous gale of laughter, and Frank joined in. After a moment, he said, “You want her report on what Gates did today?”

  Grinning at him, Vobitch said, “I can’t wait. Lay it on me.”

  “He took Emily out in his Mercedes-Benz SUV at noon, came back at one-fifteen. Half hour later, the housekeeper arrived. Gates left at three, came home at five, and the housekeeper left.”

  “Impressive. But what does it get us? We're thinking blackmail, but that's just a theory, no way to know for sure.”

  “True, but the first ransom demand was only a million.”

  Vobitch scratched his jaw. “You think Ponytail got greedy and wants more?”

  “Yes,” Frank said, “and I'll tell you what else I think. Ponytail better watch out Gates doesn't shoot him.”

  CHAPTER 38

  SATURDAY October 30 – 10:45 AM

  “Wow, did you see that, Dad?” S.J. exclaimed, his eyes fixed on the television screen.

  “Fantastic,” Sam said, had to work hard to sound enthusiastic.

  They were watching a video about disabled athletes. A clip of Scot Hollonbeck winning a gold medal in a wheelchair race at the 1992 Summer Paralympics had just finished.

  “There's a two-week camp for disabled kids in Atlanta this summer. Can I go, Dad?”

  Heartsick, Sam regarded his son, gazing up at him, his dark eyes full of excitement. S.J. was at peace with his disability, but Sam wasn't. He couldn't imagine sitting in a wheelchair, unable to control his body. He could still remember the thrill he got playing football at LSU.

  Something S.J. would never do.

  “We'll see,” he said. His usual reply when S.J. asked for something Sam knew wasn't going to happen.

  Send him to Atlanta for two weeks this summer? Where would they get the money? Hell, by then he might be in jail. A convicted kidnapper and an accessory to murder.

  A blowtorch flamed his gut, the pains coming more often now. He popped a lemon-flavored Tums and chewed. Going to the Homicide office yesterday to ask Kenyon how the murder investigation was going had been a disastrous mistake. He had attracted the attention of Detective Frank Renzi. You know a Vietnamese woman named Rose?

  A chill skittered down his spine.

  How did Renzi find out about Rose?

  If Renzi found out she was Darin's mother, it was all over.

  Time to drink the Kool Aid.

  _____

  11:25 AM

  Darin raised the revolver and squinted at the magazines tacked to the pine trees fifteen feet away. He had intended to get here earlier for another round of target practice, but he'd overslept. Desperate for cash, he'd worked late last night, collected more than a hundred bucks in tips.

  He sighted down the barrel. Both copies of People Magazine were full of holes. Now that he'd gotten the hang of it, hitting the target wasn't that hard. Hitting his real target would be even easier. Step into Gates's office tonight and get off a shot right away. Not a kill shot. That would come later, after he got the money and made the bastard suffer. Like he'd suffered for so many years.

  He took out the photograph Ma had given him. Gates looked surprised, like he wasn't expecting someone to take his picture. Wouldn't be expecting someone to pull a gun on him, either. He could hardly wait.

  Finally, a face to face showdown with his father. Hi Dad. Raped any girls lately? Why'd you kill Gwendolyn? Wouldn't she fuck you?

  He put the photo back in his pocket, raised the revolver, sighted down the barrel and gently squeezed the trigger. That was the secret. If you jerked the trigger, the shot would go wild. He was pretty good with a knife, but having a gun was even better. It made him feel dangerous.

  Excellent. He'd hit Prince William in the eye.

  But it was late. He had a lot to do b
efore the meet tonight. Ten weeks ago he'd done an Internet search and found a hospital in Mexico that did liver transplants. Perfect. Get out of the country and get Ma a new liver. On the website there were glowing testimonials from patients, 800 from the United States and Canada alone.

  Ma already had a passport, and he'd paid extra for a rush job on his, using his fake ID and birth certificate. He'd buy a little hacienda, hire some servants and live there with Ma after she got her new liver. He had already faxed her medical records to the doctor, who spoke English and so did his office staff. No waiting for a liver in Mexico and the operation cost half what it did here.

  But there were other expenses. Ma was too sick to take a commercial flight so he'd booked a charter to fly them from Lakefront Airport to San Diego. The hospital was 150 miles from the Mexican border. After they landed he'd hire an ambulance to drive Ma to the hospital.

  He stowed the gun in his knapsack and collected the People magazines. Excellent! They were full of holes. Two practice sessions and he was better than Wyatt Earp. By Monday he'd be in Mexico. He hadn't told Ma yet. He'd bring her a nice lunch and give her the news.

  _____

  2:55 PM

  “I checked with RMV,” Frank said to David Cho, squinting into the sun as they waited at a traffic light on Vets Boulevard in Metairie. David was driving today. “No license, no vehicle registered in his name. Maybe he left the state. Hell, he might even be dead.”

  David looked at him, his expression pained. “Geez, Frank, don't say that. It's the only lead we've got. Took me three days to get it.”

  “Let's hope it works out,” Frank said, trying to work up some enthusiasm. This morning Detective Trang’s CI had given David a name. In high school, he used to hang out in the woods behind the school and smoke pot with Darin Thanh. The reason David was excited: two years ago, Darin Thanh, age 18, had been arrested and charged with possession of an illegal substance.

  Frank studied his mugshot. Long black hair fell loosely to his shoulders. No ponytail. Was Darin Mickey Mouse?

  Or was this a wild goose chase?

  Envisioning Robbie's blood-soaked head, he clenched his jaw. Ten days later, his rage continued unabated. Frank embraced it. The fury energized him, driving him toward his goal. Find Robbie's killer.

  Was Darin Thanh related to Rose? In June 2008, Darin had been renting an apartment on Houma Boulevard. Like many of the north-south streets in Metairie, Houma had been split in half when by the Interstate. Above the I-10, Houma ran several blocks north to East Jefferson Hospital. Darin's address was on Houma below the I-10, a seedy area lined with low-rent apartments, known for its drug dealing activity.

  David parked beside a U-shaped apartment complex, shabby two-story buildings with bars on the first floor windows. “You think he still lives here?” David said. “We're looking for a shotgun in Kenner.”

  “Right. I'm hoping he moved and left a forwarding address.”

  In the rental office a young woman behind a desk beamed them a big smile, like they'd just made her day. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

  Frank flashed his ID. “Detective Renzi, NOPD. This is Detective Cho. We need information about one of your tenants. Can you show us the rental contract?”

  Frown lines creased her forehead below a fringe of bottle-blonde bangs. “I don't write the contracts, I just answer the phone and show the units.”

  Frank pointed at the wide beige file cabinets beside her desk, two on the floor, two stacked on top of them. “It's probably in one of those. Darin Thanh. T-H-A-N-H. Want me to get it?”

  “No, I can get it for you.” She squirted vanilla-scented hand lotion on her palms and rubbed it into her hands. “My hands get all chapped in this weather. I can't wait for summer.”

  He wanted to strangle her. “And I can't wait for you to get Darin Thanh's rental contract.”

  Her smile faltered. “Yes, sir.” She scooted her chair to the cabinets and opened the bottom file on the right, her lips moving as she went through the folders. She finally located the folder and set it on the desk.

  Frank took out the contract and showed it to David. Darin Thanh, 20, apartment 204. Lease terminated June 2008. No forwarding address.

  “Lied about his age,” David muttered.

  “And no forwarding address.” Frank turned to the woman and said, “Tell us about Darin. Can you describe him?”

  “No. I've only been here two weeks, but the maintenance man might remember him. Toby's painting Unit 206. It’s on the second floor.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said, already heading for the door.

  They went outside, trotted up an open staircase, continued along a cement walkway littered with cigarette butts and stopped at unit 206. The door was open. They walked into a living room with soiled beige carpeting, no furniture.

  “Hey, Toby,” Frank called.

  “Yo!” A dark-haired white male, early thirties, appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a paint roller, his overalls splattered with paint. “You need maintenance, talk to Julie in the office.”

  “NOPD,” Frank said, flashing his badge. “Julie said you knew Darin Thanh. Remember him?”

  Toby's expression immediately turned hostile. “Yeah, sorta.”

  “Lived here two years ago,” Frank said. “Moved out in June 2008.”

  “I need a smoke,” Toby said. “Let’s go outside.”

  They followed him into the kitchen, which smelled of latex paint. A gallon can of paint and a roller tray sat on a drop cloth beside a step-ladder. Toby put down the roller and took out a pack of Marlboros.

  Frank opened a window. “Let's talk here. We don't mind if you smoke.”

  Toby shrugged, fired up a Marlboro and stood by the open window, eyeing them warily.

  “His lease was terminated,” Frank said. “Do you know why?”

  “Darin used to smoke out on the walkway sometimes.” Toby exhaled a plume of smoke and waved his cigarette. “Not this kind, pot. Maybe somebody complained about it.”

  And maybe you sold him the pot. “Did he live here alone?”

  “No, with his mother.”

  Frank's heart sped up. “What's his mother's name?”

  “I don't know. I didn't see her much. She watched TV a lot. I don't think she could read. That's probably why Darin signed the contract. He said he was twenty, but he looked like a high school kid to me.” Toby puffed his cigarette. “She kept the place clean though, I'll give her that. Not like the pigs that moved out of here.” He gestured at the freshly-painted wall. “I hadda put two coats on that one, pasta sauce splattered all over it, like they had food fights.”

  “Do you know where they went after they moved out?” David asked.

  “I got no idea. Didn't they leave a forwarding address?”

  Ignoring the question, Frank said, “What did Darin look like?”

  Toby pointed at David. “Looked like him, but skinnier.”

  “What else?” Frank said.

  “Couldn't tell you. I'm no good at descriptions.”

  The fury reared up inside him, a visceral force that raised his heart-rate and temperature. He opened his jacket to expose the SIG holstered on his hip. “Pretend we're in a hurry, Toby. Imagine what might happen if I got annoyed. Would that improve your descriptive abilities?”

  Toby gave him a sullen look. “Not really. He’s an Asian dude, looks like him,” he said, pointing at David.

  A muscle jumped in David's jaw, slow and steady like he was counting to ten, might explode any second. After a moment David said, “No. I am Chinese. Darin Thanh is Vietnamese.”

  “Whatever,” Toby said, smirking at them.

  “Tell us about his hair.”

  “Black hair. Wore it long like a hippie, in a ponytail sometimes.”

  Annoyed by Toby’s offensive racial stereotyping, Frank headed for the door. “Better stay out of trouble if you visit New Orleans, Toby. I've got a great memory for faces. Especially idiots like you.”
>
  They went downstairs and walked back to David’s car in silence. After they got in the car, Frank said, “Fucking asshole.”

  David shrugged. “It's okay, Frank. I get that a lot. Some people think we all look alike, you know? Black hair and slanty eyes. At least he gave us something. Seems like Darin Thanh has got to be Ponytail. Lived here with his mother. Rose, probably. Let's go cruise around Kenner, see if we can find the kidnapper's house.”

  “Okay, but I checked with the electric company when you gave me the name. No listing for Darin Thanh or Rose Thanh anywhere in Louisiana. Maybe we're barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Maybe Rose got married and her last name is different,” David said as he got on the Interstate and headed west.

  “Maybe.” Frank lowered his visor as they drove west into the setting sun. “But if Darin is Mickey Mouse, we better find him fast. Donna and René are driving around Kenner like Bonnie and Clyde, looking to kill him.”

  CHAPTER 39

  SATURDAY – 4:15 PM

  Rose sagged back against the pillows, pressing her fingers to her forehead. So hard to think today, pills not working anymore. Maybe the fluid was leaking into her brain. But never mind. Her son was here.

  She summoned a smile and said, “I'm so happy to see you, Darin.”

  “Sorry I couldn't get here sooner, Ma. I had a ton of things to do.” He gestured at the take-out bag on the bedside table. “Sure you don't want some noodles?”

  “Not now, maybe later. They give me a vanilla shake for lunch and tell me drink every drop.” Thinking about this made her laugh. “Like I'm a baby again, drinking formula.”

  Darin came closer, his eyes full of concern. “I talked to the doctor. He said you're losing weight because you don't eat enough. That's why they gave you the vanilla shake. It's got a lot of protein in it and extra vitamins.”

  She patted her swollen belly. “I drank it all. Give me a kiss. That will make me feel better.”