Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6

by Susan Fleet

  _____

  Crouched on his knees, hunched over in pain, Darin peeked around the corner and watched the cop go into Gates's office. Christ! He'd hit the fucker square in the chest. How could he still be walking around?

  With the revolver in his useless left hand, he towed the suitcase to the elevator and hit the call button. He didn't want to take the elevator, but he had no choice. His shoulder was on fire and stabbing pains were shooting down his left arm.

  When the elevator door opened, he dragged the suitcase inside, hit the Close-Door button, then One. As the doors rolled shut, he sagged against the wall, doubled over with pain.

  Evil thoughts filled in his mind. The motherfucker never intended to pay him. All along he'd been planning to double-cross him, hiding a gun behind the fancy black-enamel box on his desk.

  But he showed the motherfucker. Lights out, Dad. May you rot in hell.

  The elevator door opened. Cautiously, he stepped out and looked around the foyer. No cops. Maybe the one he'd seen going into his father's office was alone. He towed the suitcase out to the parking lot.

  Now the sky was pitch black. Good. But the pain in his shoulder was worse. He had to get something for the pain. He ran to the Honda, let go of the suitcase and fumbled for the keys.

  Then he noticed the tires. Jesus-fucking-Christ, the tires were flat!

  Off in the distance, he heard a faint siren, more cops headed this way. He wanted to scream. A million bucks in the suitcase and he had no car.

  Then he remembered the sign in the foyer. WAREHOUSE.

  Maybe there was some kind of vehicle in there he could use.

  _____

  Frank looked out the window, saw the flashing lights on his Dodge and headed for the door. There was nothing he could do for Gates. Time to focus on Darin, who wouldn't be leaving Hunter Firearms in Donna's Honda.

  He went to the office door and edged into the hall. He heard a door slam and ran to the staircase. A sign above a door on the far side of the foyer said WAREHOUSE. If Hunter Firearms shipped product from here, the warehouse would have exit doors. It might also have vehicles.

  Driven by fury, he raced downstairs and ran to the door. It was solid steel with a metal push-bar. He eased it open and slipped inside, held his breath and listened. The warehouse was silent and dark. The odor of gun oil, packing cartons and gas fumes filled his nostrils.

  Holding his SIG in one hand, he groped the wall beside the door, found the light switches and flipped them. Banks of two-foot-long florescent lights in the ceiling blinked on. Frank studied the warehouse from his position on a small raised platform, five steps above the concrete floor. The warehouse was enormous, fifty yards long, twenty yards wide. Along the left wall, orange forklifts, pallet trucks and hydraulic lifts with Z-shaped elevator platforms sat idle. On the right wall, floor-to-ceiling storage units held various-sized cartons, small ones for handguns, longer ones for rifles. The space between the storage units and work vehicles was bare concrete, ten yards wide. Fifty yards away at the far end, two metal roll-up doors were shut tight.

  No sign of Darin, but there were plenty of places for him to hide.

  “Give it up, Darin,” he shouted, his voice echoing in the cavernous space, bouncing off the concrete walls and floor. “You're surrounded. Put the gun down and come out with your hands up.”

  “Fuck you!” Darin popped out from behind a forklift midway down the left-hand wall. Holding the revolver in one hand, he aimed at Frank and fired.

  The slug hit the wall beside the warehouse door, showering him with shards of wood. He took the five concrete steps in two leaps and ducked behind the nearest forklift. How many rounds were left in Darin's revolver? And where was Vobitch? He could use some backup right about now.

  He eased his head around the forklift, alert for movement. No sign of Darin. His ribs ached where the slug hit the Kevlar vest. He'd have a big bruise tomorrow. But at least he was alive, unlike Gates.

  A sudden motion caught his eye. Darin burst out from behind a forklift and ran toward the exit doors at the far end of the warehouse, towing a suitcase with one hand. His right hand held the gun.

  “Give it up, Darin. You're surrounded.”

  Darin stopped and turned. Raised the revolver and shot at him. The slug didn't hit him, but it slammed into the forklift beside him and tore off a chunk of metal. Searing pain ripped into his left arm. He looked at his jeans jacket and saw a gash above his elbow. But he couldn't think about that now.

  He ran forward and ducked behind the next forklift. “Stop or I'll shoot! Put the gun down and get on the ground!”

  “Go to hell, motherfucker!” Darin screamed and charged him.

  Using his left hand to cradle his right forearm, Frank aimed at Darin's leg. Inhaled. Held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The SIG kicked in his hand and a hole sprouted in Darin's right thigh, spurting crimson blood.

  Darin spun around and sank to his knees on the cement floor, blood oozing from his leg. Frank slowly advanced on him. Heard the dull click of a hammer hitting an empty chamber. Darin was still trying to shoot him, but his gun was empty.

  Ignoring the pain in his arm, Frank stood over Darin, sprawled on the concrete floor with his mouth open, his chest rising and falling. Frank could hear his breathing, a raspy sound. Everything else was silence.

  Glaring at him, his eyes full of hate, Darin held the gun in his right hand, clutched his bleeding thigh with the other. In a fit of petulance, he threw the revolver at him. Frank ducked and the gun clattered to the cement, skittering across the floor. Game over. Time for some answers.

  “Did Gates pay you to kidnap his family?”

  “Gates? Hell, no. It was my idea. I planned the whole thing.”

  Frank could hardly believe it. The egotistical little shit was bragging about his crimes. Too bad he didn't have a tape recorder.

  “Why did you kill Robbie?”

  “Gates called the cops. I hadda send him a message.”

  The fury rose up inside him like a deadly cobra. No remorse from Darin. His heart was pumping ice water, not blood. But Frank also knew that a dangerous demon lurked inside him, a demon that said Sometimes even when you catch the bad guys, they get away. And Darin was a very bad guy.

  He aimed the SIG at Darin's chest. One shot and Darin's cowardly life of crime would be over. No witnesses in here, no one the wiser. But that would be too easy a death for the heartless prick who had beaten Robbie to death.

  With a supreme effort, Frank lowered the gun. “Robbie wasn't his son.”

  “So-fucking-what! He had all the advantages, lived in that fancy mansion in Lakeview. Gates treated him like a son, gave him anything he wanted.”

  Conscious of the pain in his left arm, Frank glanced at the blood dripping down the sleeve of his jacket onto his wrist. Lightheaded and woozy, he took two deep breaths and stood with his legs apart to keep himself from falling.

  And thought about Robbie, curled into a ball, trying to ward off the blows from his killer. Frank knelt down and grabbed Darin's jaw with his right hand. He had very strong hands. Staring into Darin's eyes, he squeezed until tears of pain filled Darin's eyes. “What did you hit him with?”

  “Let go! You're hurting me!” Darin gasped.

  “What did you hit him with, you sack of shit?”

  “Gates is the sack of shit! He raped a girl in Texas, murdered another one and got away with it!” Darin's lips drew back in a snarl. “Then he came to New Orleans and got my mother pregnant and abandoned her. I'm his real son, but he didn't want no half-breed kid.”

  Frank squeezed harder, letting the pain build until it registered on Darin's face. “You think this is as bad as it gets? Wrong. It will get worse, an infinite universe of pain. You're a slimy good-for-nothing punk with no conscience.”

  “Bullshit! Gates is the one without a conscience. My mother hadda work two jobs to support us. We never had enough money. I quit high school and went to work so we wouldn’t have to live in a d
ump. But I showed him. Pay for your sins, I said.” Darin smiled. “And now he's dead, right?”

  Struggling to maintain his composure, Frank said, “Who's your mother?”

  “Rose Thanh. If she don't get a new liver soon, she'll die. I needed money to buy her one, tried to get it from Gates, but then everything got fucked up.”

  Some of the puzzle pieces were falling into place, but others weren't. “Who's Donald Duck?”

  “You're so fucking smart, you figure it out, asshole!”

  Frank heard rapid footsteps, rose to his feet and turned.

  Trotting toward him with a Beretta in his hand, Vobitch said, “Yo, Frank! You okay?”

  “I'm fine,” he said.

  “No, you're not.” Vobitch pointed at his left arm. “You're bleeding like a sonofabitch!”

  Frank looked at his left arm. He'd been so focused on Darin, he'd blocked out the pain. Bright-red blood dripped over his wrist and ran down his hand. The sight made him queasy. His secret weakness.

  The bloodiest crime scenes didn't faze him. But seeing his own blood freaked him out. Don't think about that now.

  He gestured at Darin. “He claims he's Gates's son.”

  “It true!” Darin screamed. “Look at the picture on his desk. And call an ambulance! Jesus Christ, I'm bleeding and my shoulder's killing me!”

  “Stop whining you worthless piece of shit,” Vobitch snarled. “I had my way, you'd bleed to death right here.”

  Vobitch took out his cellphone, punched in a number and said to Frank, “I'll get the crime scene unit and the medical examiner over here. Might even call an ambulance for this fucking asshole.” He looked at Frank's face. “Jesus, Frank, you're as white as a ghost! Are you okay?”

  Lightheaded and dizzy, he swayed and grabbed Vobitch’s arm.

  “I need to sit down.”

  CHAPTER 44

  SATURDAY – 9:35 PM

  Frank left the treatment cubicle feeling like a new man. No blood dripping down his arm, no major damage to any muscles, nerves or tendons. Best of all, his endless days of fury and frustration were over. He had captured Robbie's killer, Darin Thanh.

  He assumed the local TV stations were already running the story. Raven Woodson would waste no time going live with the exclusive, and other stations would jump on the breaking news.

  While Vobitch drove him to the hospital, Frank had called her, partly to keep his promise, partly to avoid contemplating his blood-soaked arm.

  “The Gates case just broke, Raven, and I promised to call you first. One of the kidnappers shot Gates in his office tonight. Gates is dead, but we captured the killer. He's in an ambulance headed to a hospital for treatment of a gunshot wound.” And after a beat, “Mine, but it's non-life threatening.”

  Clearly excited, Raven said, “Can you tell me his name?”

  “No, and don't use my name either. Get over to Hunter Firearms and send another crew to Kenner.” He gave her Darin's address.

  “Thanks for the exclusive, Frank. I appreciate it.”

  “You're welcome. You earned it with the tip about Gate's problems in Texas.” Then he had ended the call, leaned back against the seat and shut is eyes, so he wouldn't see the blood.

  When he came out of the Emergency Room, Vobitch was waiting for him in the hall. “How you doing?” he said, frowning, gesturing at the thick white bandage wrapped around Frank's upper left arm. “Your arm okay?”

  “It's fine, just a flesh wound, only took seven stitches to close it.” He tapped the scar on his chin. “Took twice as many to sew up my chin on my sixth birthday. The nurse gave me painkillers for later.” She had offered to put his blood-soaked jeans jacket in a plastic bag, but he’d told her to dump it. He didn't want to take it home and deal with the blood.

  “I thought you were gonna faint in that warehouse, Frank. Scared the shit out of me.”

  “I felt a little woozy, that's all. Nothing serious.”

  Vobitch regarded him, stone-faced. “Looked damn serious to me, my best homicide detective with a gash in his arm, his face as white as new-fallen snow.” His expression softened. “You're a stubborn guy, Frank. Couldn't wait for backup, had to take the bastard down yourself.”

  “Damn right. He beat Robbie's head to a pulp. It took a while, but we got him.”

  “No, Frank. You got him.” Vobitch took him down the hall to a deserted alcove near a bank of elevators. “While you were getting stitched up, I talked to people in the ER about Darin Thanh. Right now he's in surgery. They had to operate on his shoulder where you shot him.”

  “Not me, Gates. I shot him in the leg.”

  Vobitch's eyes widened. “Gates shot him?”

  “Yes. When Darin shot at me from the second floor hallway, his shoulder was bleeding.”

  “Well, Gates won't be shooting anybody else.” Vobitch flashed his evil smile. “The prick was too smart for his own good, got away with some bad shit in Texas, figured he could do it again here. But sometimes what goes around comes around, even for bastards like Gates.”

  Frank agreed up to a point, but Gates's final words echoed in his mind. Tell Emily I love her. Gates might be evil man, but in the end his final thoughts had been for his daughter, and Emily clearly adored her father. His death would be a devastating blow to her.

  “Darin won't be shooting anybody, either,” Vobitch said. “I found out which room they'd take him to after the surgery. Two NOPD uniforms are posted outside the door. Then I talked to the EMT who rode with him in the ambulance. Darin insisted they bring him to East Jefferson Hospital.” Vobitch smiled. “You ready for this? His mother's here. Rose Thanh.”

  Stunned, Frank said, “Rose is here?”

  “Yup. I had a chat with a hospital administrator about Rose. She's in bad shape, got cirrhosis of the liver, been here for ten days waiting for a liver transplant. But a lot of people are ahead of her on the transplant list. The administrator doesn't think she'll get one in time.”

  “Where is she?” Frank said. “I want to talk to her.”

  “Hold on, there’s more. We found stamped envelopes in Donna's Honda addressed to the media, one to the fucking local rag, three to the network affiliates, one to the Fox News affiliate. I opened one. Take a look at this.” He took a photograph out of his jacket. “Hunter Gates with a Vietnamese woman. I assume she's Rose Thanh, Darin's mother.”

  Frank studied the photo. “Darin swore Gates was his father. Darin's twenty-one. I don't know when this was taken, but Gates looks young. Maybe he really is Darin's father.”

  “Ask me if I care. Here's the best part. Darin was blackmailing him, put a note in each envelope detailing the allegations about Gates, the gang-rape and the Gwendolyn Squire murder. Beats me how he got it.”

  “You can get most anything on the Internet these days,” Frank said. “I want to talk to Rose.”

  Vobitch held up a hand. “One last thing. I called your favorite FBI agent to tell her we got Robbie's killer. CC told me René showed up at the Gates house a couple of hours ago.”

  “Jesus! I totally forgot about René. What happened?”

  “She saw an SUV pull in the driveway and a guy fitting René's description got out. She went outside and intercepted him, identified herself and told him Gates wasn't home. When she asked if he was René, he said he must be at the wrong house. She didn't believe him, but she had no reason to hold him, so she let him go.”

  “Did she get the make, model and tag number of his vehicle?”

  “Yes. A black Chevy Tahoe, registered in Florida to a guy in his band. No wonder we couldn't find it. Come on, let's go talk to Rose.”

  As they waited for an elevator Frank tried to process the tsunami of information, thoughts bouncing around his mind like ping-pong balls.

  The elevator doors opened, and six people got out. Vobitch hustled him into the empty car, hit the Door-Close button, then Three.

  “We got Darin,” Frank said, “but we don't know who Donald Duck is.”

  “Darin
figures out how much trouble he's in, maybe he'll try to cut a deal and tell us.”

  The elevator stopped on Three and they entered a small waiting room. Faint sounds came from a TV on the ceiling, and dog-eared copies of People Magazine were strewn over tables and yellow plastic chairs. A woman in a flowered sundress sat in the corner, hands clenched in her lap, tears streaming down her face. Nothing good happened in hospitals at this time of night.

  They set off down a hallway lit by banks of fluorescent lights in the ceiling, the air reeking of antiseptic.

  A slender dark-haired man in green scrubs and thick-soled white shoes approached them from the other direction. Holding a clipboard in his hand, he opened the door to a room and went inside.

  His face looked vaguely familiar, but Frank had no time to think about it. Vobitch gave him the photograph and pointed to a door on the other side of the hall. “Rose is in there. I'll wait here while you talk to her.”

  After his fruitless search for her, Frank was eager to talk to her, but he took a moment to formulate some questions. When he entered the room, a sickly sweet odor and the smell of antiseptic hit him. No TV, but an electronic monitor beside the bed beeped continuously.

  Draped in a white sheet, her head propped on two pillows, Rose Thanh appeared to be dozing, her eyelids at half-mast, her long black hair splayed over the pillow. She looked frail and tiny, almost birdlike, the light brown skin on her face damp with perspiration.

  “Hello, Rose,” he said. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  Her eyes fluttered open. “You a nurse?” she said in a weak voice. “Where's your uniform?”

  “I'm not a nurse, I'm a homicide detective. Frank Renzi, NOPD. Are you Darin Thanh's mother?”

  To his surprise, she beamed him a big smile. “Yes. Such a wonderful son. Darin comes to see me every day, brings me noodles with fish sauce. Hospital food so bland and tasteless.”

  “Did he come to see you today?”

  “Yes. He brought me a nice dinner, but I couldn't eat it.” She patted her stomach. “Belly always full nowadays. But Darin is taking me to Mexico to get a new liver. On Monday, he said.”