by Susan Fleet
She turned away and pretended to look for someone, staring at the vehicles passing the store, hoping the man would leave. She counted to ten.
When she turned back and looked at him, he tossed his butt on the sidewalk, pushed off the wall and walked away. Thankful he’d gone, she hurried to the payphone. And realized she had no change.
Damn it to hell! She rubbed her throbbing temples. 9-1-1 calls were free, but if she told the police about the kidnapper's house, they might find René there with his gun and arrest him.
No. Better to call Mom collect. Directions posted above the telephone told her to dial “0” and follow the prompts. Moments later, an operator came on and asked for name of the person she wanted to call and the number.
“Blanche Crochiere,” she said, and recited the number.
“What is your name?” the operator said.
“Donna Lee.”
“One moment, please.”
She heard the phone ring. Please be home, Mom!
Mercifully, her mother answered right away. “Hello?”
“Will you accept a collect call from Donna Lee?” said the operator.
“Yes!”
“Thank you,” the operator said. “You may proceed with the call.”
“Donna! Thank goodness you called! I've been frantic with worry. Where are you?”
“René and I found the kidnapper's house in Kenner. Call that detective and tell him to get over there right now.”
“I will. What's the address?”
“René just talked to him.”
“Talked to who?”
“The kidnapper. Then he left with his gun. I'm afraid he'll kill him.”
“Jesus! Give me the address and I'll call Detective Renzi. He'll know what to do.”
She read the address off the sheet of paper. “Tell him to hurry.”
“I will, but what about you? Are you in a safe place?”
“Yes, but I'm worried about René. Call the detective now!” she said, and ended the call.
_____
Seated at the Jazz Seafood bar, Frank mopped up the last of his seafood gumbo with a piece of garlic bread. Fixated on finding the kidnapper's house, he had driven around Kenner for two hours, a fruitless search. When he didn't spot Donna's Honda outside a shotgun, he had decided to grab some dinner.
Jazz Seafood was on the corner of Williams Boulevard in Kenner. No live jazz, but the seafood gumbo was great. The guy across the bar from him was working on a big bowl of chowder, and the bartender was slammed, filling drink orders for the dining room.
He'd love to talk to Kelly, but her high school reunion banquet was tonight. A week ago at this time Donna and Emily had been making peanut butter cookies for Robbie. Now Robbie was dead. Emily was home with her father, but Donna and René were riding around Kenner looking for Mickey Mouse. So René could kill him.
He drained the last of his beer, set the mug on the bar and stared out the window. In the fading twilight, neon lights flashed on nearby hotels and gas stations. Beyond them, a jumbo jet was descending toward Louis Armstrong Airport like a big lazy bird.
Robbie's killer lived near the airport, but Frank had no clue where. Frustration on all fronts. He couldn't find Donna's car, couldn't find the kidnapper's house, couldn’t find Darin Thanh.
He took out Darin's mugshot. No ponytail, but he was convinced Darin was Ponytail, and he was going to get the bastard, no matter how long it took. He put the mugshot in his pocket and took out a sheet of graph paper. David had sketched out a grid of the streets they had checked near the airport. Earlier when David gave it to him, Frank had said, “Wicked smaaht,” in an exaggerated Boston accent. That made David laugh. His girlfriend was getting her master’s degree at MIT, and David loved hearing about Boston, pumping Frank about his years with Boston PD.
His cellphone rang. Frank grabbed it off the bar. Blanche Crochiere.
When he answered, she said, “Frank, Donna just called me! They found the house, and you need to go there right away. René talked to the kidnapper and he's going there with a gun.”
His heart surged. Finally, they'd caught a break. “Give me the address,” he said, and wrote it on the graph paper as she gave it to him. “What kind of car is he driving?”
“Damn! I didn't think to ask her.”
“Okay, I'm already in Kenner, not far from there.”
“Should I call the Kenner police?” Blanche said.
“No. Let me handle it,” Frank said and ended the call.
He signaled the bartender, put enough cash on his tab to cover it, ran out the door and jumped in his car. But this wouldn’t be quick and easy. Traffic was heavy at this hour on a Saturday night.
He edged into the line of cars stopped at the traffic light on the corner of Vets Boulevard, got on his cellphone and called Kenyon Miller.
“Yo, Frank. What's up?”
“Donna called Blanche and said they spotted her car at the kidnapper’s house. Here's the address.” He read it off and said, “I'm on Williams Boulevard about a mile away. Call David. I need you two to meet me there right away. Donna said René is going there with a gun.”
“Holy shit!” Kenyon said.
“Keep in touch so I know where you are.”
Frank shut his cellphone as the light turned green. His heart thrummed as he crossed Vets Boulevard and drove north on Williams Boulevard. He knew where the scumbag lived. But now he had another problem.
Would he get there before René did?
CHAPTER 41
SATURDAY – 6:50 PM
Unable to sit still, Hunter Gates paced his office. His hands were sweaty, his shirt damp with perspiration inside his suit jacket. In ten minutes the blackmailer would be here. The suitcase he'd bought to replace the one the NOPD had confiscated sat on his desk. Inside it was a million dollars in cash. Not that the bastard would ever spend any of it.
As a kid living on the farm in California, he’d shot plenty of deer and rabbits and other varmints. He'd never shot a human being, but this was different. Ten minutes from now he would take great pleasure in killing the cocksucker who threatened to expose his secrets and screw up his life.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, took out his Defender and sighted down the barrel at his office door. Hit the bastard in the heart with a hollow-point slug, he'd be dead within seconds.
Maybe that’s what he'd do. Tell the fucker to come in and waste him.
But that wasn't the plan. Better to stick with the program. The prick was greedy. Hide the Defender and show him the money first. That would distract him. The middle drawer on the left side of his desk was half-open. Inside was the unregistered gun, fully loaded.
He laid the Defender on the desk, flipped the latches on the suitcase, raised the lid and studied the neatly-bundled stacks of twenty dollar bills. A million dollars of his hard-earned money. Money he'd worked his ass off to make. No way was this cocksucker getting it.
He bent closer, inhaling the odor of crisp new bills. Few things excited him as much as the scent of money. The new-car smell of his red Corvette when he'd driven it home from the dealership. The scent of gun oil when he cleaned his weapons. The odor of sex when a woman spread her legs.
Already he had an erection.
He hadn't had sex with Donna lately, but he'd screwed plenty of other women. Where was she, he wondered. She'd probably found some other guy to rescue her. Her kind always did. But she'd served her purpose, a good-looking woman with a modicum of intelligence to bear his child. But forget Donna. He had Emily. That's what was important.
Forget politics, too. Run for office, you had to kiss ass and be nice to rich donors who expected you to do things for them after you got elected. Screw that. There were plenty of smart good-looking woman around. He'd marry one and have another child, a boy this time, the son he had always wanted.
A warm glow filled his chest. He dearly loved Emily, but he yearned for a son, a handsome strapping boy who looked like him, smart and athle
tic. Once he got rid of this blackmailer, he'd divorce Donna, find another woman to give him a son and groom the boy to take over Hunter Firearms. The timing was perfect. When he retired twenty years from now, his son would be on the cusp of manhood, handsome and intelligent, well-educated and ambitious, eager to run the business.
_____
Frank got in the right lane, stopped at a traffic signal and tapped the steering wheel, frustrated by the delay. Ponytail's house was three blocks away, and he wanted to get there before René did. Usually the traffic signals on Williams Boulevard cycled quickly, but someone had hit the Walk light.
Teenagers in Halloween costumes surged onto the crosswalk, looked like they were headed to a party. The costume shops did great business during Halloween. A red Devil with a gold pitchfork darted across, followed by Cat Woman in a skin-tight black outfit with sparkly rhinestones. A kid in a Robin Hood costume. A girl in a Farrah Fawcette wig and a skin-tight red dress. Bringing up the rear was a tall, skinny Tin Man, his face spray-painted silver to match his silver costume. The Walk light started blinking.
Frank looked at the car ahead of him. A red-haired freckle-faced boy was kneeling on the back seat, looked like Denis the Menace. The kid put on a Lone Ranger mask and stuck his tongue out at him. Frank laughed and stuck out his tongue, and the kid dissolved into giggles.
A moment of levity after a long frustrating day.
But soon he would have his reward. Ponytail lived three blocks away on Dakota Street. Anxious to get moving, he rolled down his window. Music boomed from the car beside him, a thumping bass line.
A long horn blast drew his attention to a car on Dakota Street waiting to turn left onto Williams Boulevard. A bright blue Honda.
His heart jolted. It was Donna's car!
As the Honda pulled forward to cross Williams, Frank leaned forward and studied the driver. Yes! Ponytail was driving.
But the Honda turned left and drove south on Williams Boulevard. Damn! He was in the right-hand lane on the northbound side. In the car beside him, the teenage driver was bobbing his head to the music. Frank hit a switch to activate his emergency lights, and red-and-blue strobes flashed along the front and rear windows and bumpers.
The instant the light turned green, he leaned on his horn to get Music Fiend’s attention, cut in front of him and got in the left lane. But two lanes of traffic on the southbound side clogged the intersection. Pulling a U-turn here would be difficult.
He glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Donna's Honda, stopped at a red light. If he kept going north to the next intersection, the Honda might get away.
Fuck that. He bulled his way into the left-turn lane and leaned on his horn. The car in front of him moved out of the way. He waited for two lanes of southbound cars to stop, did a U-turn and accelerated, anxiously scanning the cars ahead of him.
Two blocks up the Honda blew through a yellow light and kept going. The six cars behind the Honda stopped at the red light, three in each lane. Lights flashing, Frank pulled up behind them and honked his horn. Agonizing seconds passed as the cars edged apart and a narrow path opened. With inches to spare, he eased the Dodge between them.
Ahead of him, Ponytail had stopped at a red light. The Honda was first in line, no cars in front of it. Beyond the traffic signal, a sign above the roadway indicated a split: the two left lanes were for Interstate-bound vehicles, the other two lanes continued southbound on Williams Boulevard.
Which way would Ponytail go?
Moments later, the Honda got a green light, veered into the left lane and zoomed up the entrance ramp to the Interstate. Frank didn't wait for his light to turn green. Blasting his horn, he stomped the accelerator, swerved around cars that screeched to a halt, and barreled after the Honda. He didn't know where Ponytail was going, but tailing him on the I-10 would be easier than playing dodge-em at traffic lights on Williams Boulevard.
He blew through a yellow light at the next intersection, shut off the emergency lights and raced up the entrance ramp to the I-10. But at the top of a hill the road forked, one lane for I-10-East, one lane for I-10-West.
No Honda in sight. Decision time.
If Ponytail was blackmailing Gates, he would have no reason to head west. Frank took the I-10-East fork, drove around a wide loop and merged into four lanes of traffic. He mopped sweat from his brow, scanning the cars ahead of him. No Honda. Damn it to hell!
He cut off a big yellow Hummer to get in the middle lane. The bearded driver gave him the finger. Frank ignored him, swerved into the high-speed lane and accelerated. A minute later, he spotted the Honda, barreling down the highway six cars ahead of him.
Relieved, he eased off the gas, got on his cellphone and called Kenyon.
“Yo, Frank,” Kenyon said. “David just got in my car. We're about to get on the Interstate and head for Kenner.”
“Use your lights and sirens. You’re not gonna believe this, but I just spotted Ponytail in Donna's Honda on Williams Boulevard. Right now I'm on the I-10 headed east. He's six cars ahead of me. I need you and David to get to his house fast and secure the scene. If René shows up, grab him and hold him. I don't care for what, make something up. I think Ponytail is on his way to meet Gates.”
“To collect the blackmail payoff?” Kenyon said.
“Yes, but I don't know where they're meeting.”
“What if he goes to the Gates house? Ponytail might have a gun, too.”
“Wouldn't surprise me. Claudia's watching the Gates house. I'll call and warn her. Get over to that house in Kenner ASAP!” He ended the call, hit the speed-dial for CC and waited.
“Hey, Frank,” Claudia said. “What's going on? Anything new?”
“Yes.” He ran it down fast and said, “I just sent two detectives to the house in Kenner. Are you watching the Gates house with Alice?”
“I am, but Alice isn’t. She went out to do some errands. Gates isn't home. The housekeeper arrived at four-thirty, and Gates left a half hour later. I haven't seen him since.”
This confirmed his theory. Gates was going somewhere to meet Ponytail. Unfortunately, Frank didn’t know where.
“I don't think you’ll see Ponytail at the Gates house,” he said, “but it wouldn't surprise me if René showed up there. I'm sure he knows where it is. Be careful. He's got a gun.”
_____
Gates stood at his office window, staring into the darkness, clenching and unclenching his fists. Where the hell was the bastard? He wanted to get this over with. His plan was perfect. No one would blame him.
A blackmailer had threatened to sully his wife's honor and shot at him when he refused pay. Which left him no choice, so he'd shot him.
Off to his left, security lights blinked on at the impound lot where NOPD kept the vehicles they had towed for various offenses. Moments later, Halogen lights on tall poles lit up the six visitor parking spaces two floors below him.
But his black Mercedes-Benz SUV was the only car there, dammit. Where the hell was the blackmailer?
Then he saw headlights flash. A car drove into the parking lot and parked in a space beneath one of the Halogen lights. Strange. It looked like Donna's blue Honda. But how could it be? He leaned forward, squinting at the Honda.
Son-of-a-bitch! It was Donna's car.
Rage clogged his throat. Was she in on this?
Hell, she might have suggested this blackmail scheme. Let me and Emily go and blackmail my husband. Six million dollars. We can split it.
He whirled and took out his Defender. The humidor with Cuban cigars sat on his desktop, a beautiful black-lacquered container with a silver latch, six inches high and eight inches long.
He moved the humidor to the left side of the desktop above the drawer with the unregistered gun and placed his Defender behind it.
The perfect position for a left-handed shooter.
Grab the gun, shoot the prick and his troubles would be over.
After the bastard lay dead on the carpet with a bullet in his heart, h
e would execute the rest of his plan and celebrate with a glass of scotch. A fresh bottle of Johnny Walker Black was in the cabinet above the mini-fridge.
CHAPTER 42
Frazzled by the traffic on Williams Boulevard and his frantic high-speed race down the I-10, Darin parked the Honda and sat there. His hands were shaking, and his heart was beating so hard he could barely breathe. After waiting all these years, he was about to confront the man who had abandoned him. Hunter Gates. Mr. Important.
But not anymore. By Monday his name would be mud.
Bound together by an elastic band, seven envelopes lay on the passenger seat, stamped and ready. He'd drop them in a mailbox tonight. By the time they reached their destination, he and Ma would be on a chartered plane bound for San Diego.
The Magnum was in the pouch pocket along the front of his sweatshirt, fully loaded. In his haste to get Donna's car keys, he'd forgotten the extra ammo in his van, but seven bullets would be plenty. One to shock the bastard and, after he delivered his message, one to the heart.
A black Mercedes-Benz with fancy hubcaps was parked two spaces away. Mr. Important's car. Good. The prick was waiting for him.
He jumped out of the Honda, ran to the entrance and stepped inside. The building was silent and still, the only sound his raspy breathing. High above him, globe light fixtures lit up a two-story atrium with an arched glass ceiling. To his left along the wall, a rock garden with orange and white flowers gave off a sweet aroma. On the right-hand wall, an office directory was posted beside an elevator. Three steps got him to the directory. Hunter Gates was in Room 201.
Twenty yards ahead of him an open staircase went up to the second floor. Moving silently, he crept up seven stairs and stopped on a landing. Here, the staircase dog-legged right. Seven more steps took him to a carpeted hallway on the second floor, a square balcony lined with offices.
