Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield

by J. D. Rhoades

  The girl’s face looked back up at them. They couldn’t see her body or much of anything below the chin, because someone was holding a folded newspaper directly below her face. They could clearly make out the headlines: PLANNING OFFICIAL INDICTED, one read. BRAVES SPLIT DOUBLEHEADER, a smaller one said.

  “Okay,” Wolf said. “Atlanta Journal -Constitution. Any idea from when?”

  “Two days ago,” Janine said. “I looked it up online. Those were the stories on the front page two days ago.”

  “Good.” Wolf turned to Buckthorn. “Definitely a proof of life,” he said. “But here’s the thing. We did a search. There just aren’t any open kidnapping for ransom cases on the Eastern seaboard right now.”

  “You’re saying this hasn’t been reported?”

  Wolf nodded. “Exactly.”

  “But why?” Janine said. “Why wouldn’t anyone call the police if their little girl went missing? Especially a pretty little thing like that?”

  “Good question,” Wolf said.

  “The kidnapper ordered them not to,” Buckthorn suggested.

  “Maybe,” Wolf said. “Or maybe it’s the kind of thing the people involved want to settle privately.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Janine said.

  “It means,” Buckthorn said, “some kind of gang thing. Kidnapping for revenge.”

  “Or collateral,” Wolf said. “Someone owes someone money, so they take the debtor’s child as security.”

  “Dear Lord,” Janine said. “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah,” Wolf said. “It is.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lofton’s phone rang as they were driving away from the house. They were in his truck, with Lofton at the wheel. He fumbled the bleating device out of his pocket and checked the number.

  “Shit,” he said. “It’s Preston.”

  “Give me the phone,” Donovan said. “You drive.” Lofton hesitated, then handed the phone over.

  “Yeah?” Donovan said. Then, “He’s busy right now.” There was a burst of agitated talking on the other end. “Who I am is none of your business. Have ya got Mr. Monroe’s money?” Another stream of chatter. “We’re runnin’ out of patience, sunshine,” Donovan said. “Give me a time frame here, unless you want your little girl coming back in a bunch of separate packages.” He listened for another moment, then hung up. “He wanted to talk to her.”

  “If he starts thinking she’s dead,” Lofton said, “then he’s got nothing to lose by going to the cops.”

  “True,” Donovan said. “You realize how badly you’ve fucked this up, right?”

  “Look, asshole,” Lofton began, then his head slammed against the driver’s side window as Donovan’s left fist shot out and struck him in the side of the face. The truck slewed across the road, almost into the path of an oncoming SUV. The SUV’s driver swerved and honked frantically.

  “You crazy son of a bitch!” Lofton yelled, fighting the wheel to drag the big truck back into his lane. When he had the vehicle under control, he put his hand to the side of his head. It came away bloody. “Okay, motherfucker,” he said in a low voice, and started to pull to the side.

  “Don’t,” Donovan said. Lofton looked over. Donovan was leaned back against the passenger door, pointing an ugly black semiautomatic pistol at him.

  “What the fuck?” Lofton said.

  “Shut up,” Donovan replied. “I got sent down here to clean up the mess you made, eejit. And if that includes burying you, the girl, and Preston in the same hole, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  Lofton tried to keep his voice steady. “Granddaddy on board with that?”

  “He will be,” Donovan said, “if it’s necessary. So don’t make it necessary. Right now, the only reason you’re still breathing is because you’re of use. I need you to help me get that girl out of that hole and shut her up. For good. Then we go take care of Preston. What I do with you after that depends on how well behaved you are from now till then. So, are you going to behave?”

  Lofton didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched in rage. This ain’t right, he was thinking. This son of a bitch ain’t even family.

  “While you think about it,” Donovan said, “consider this. Preston’s not going to come up with that money. There was no way he was ever going to. I mean, Jesus, a hundred and fifty grand? To a guy with a gambling jones that bad? The guy’s a loser, always has been. But you backed the loan. So, according to Mr. Monroe’s rules, which you know as well as I do, you’re responsible for it. Think about how you’re going to cover that, if you want to get out of this alive. Now, I’m getting impatient. Are you going to behave, or do I just shoot you right now?”

  “Okay,” Lofton said through clenched teeth.

  “Okay, what?”

  Lofton’s voice sounded like he was strangling on the words. “Okay, I’m going to behave.”

  “Good choice,” Donovan said. “And if you’re thinking of changing it, just keep in mind, you’re on your Granddaddy’s shit list right now. I can help get you off it, or you can go to number one on the list. Now drive.”

  __________

  Arthur Preston closed the phone. His face was pale and drawn, the dark circles under his eyes standing out prominently.

  “Well?” his ex-wife said. “Did you talk to her? I didn’t hear you talking to her. Was she okay?” Her voice held a high, thin edge of near hysteria.

  “I don’t know who it was I talked to,” he said. His voice sounded faint, even in his own ears. “Someone I never heard before.”

  “What? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “He said I needed to come up with the money.”

  “That’s it,” she said. “I’m calling the police.” She reached for her own phone on the coffee table.

  “NO!” he crossed the room in a few long strides and grabbed her arm.

  “Let go of me!” she screamed and struck at him with her free hand. Her nails caught his cheek and raked down. He screamed with pain and rage and caught her wrist. He slammed her back down against the couch. She thrashed under him like a wild animal, shrieking incoherently. He twisted just in time to catch her knee on his hip instead of his balls.

  “LISTEN TO ME!” he roared, pinning her to the couch. She stopped struggling and stared up at him, her eyes filled with hatred.

  He got his voice under control. “If we call the cops,” he said, “they’ll know. They’ve got people there. All over the place. They’ll know, Myra. And they’ll kill her.”

  “They’ve killed her already, you bastard,” she said. “And it’s your fucking fault!”

  “No,” he said. “They would have told me. They’d want me to know. Besides, that’s not the way they do things. They’d…” he stopped. “They wouldn’t do it all at once. They’d…they’d send me an ear. Or a finger. Something to let me know. Something to…motivate me. That’s how these people work.”

  “Oh, now you’re some sort of expert.” She shook her head, then turned and spat, full in his face. He recoiled, releasing her arms. He stumbled backwards, landing on his ass on the floor.

  She sat up, rubbing her wrists. “Do you have any idea how much I fucking hate you right now?”

  “You mean more than usual?” he said bitterly. He got to his feet. “I can fix this.”

  “How?” she demanded. “You’ve never been able to fix anything. Ever. You fucking loser!”

  It was such a familiar refrain, it amazed him to see how badly it could still wound him. “I can fix this. Don’t call the police. She’ll die if you do.”

  “Get out,” she said. “And don’t come back here without my daughter.”

  He didn’t answer, just walked out the door of the house he’d once shared with her. He’d been there since he’d gotten the phone call from Lofton, letting him know he had Callie, that he was holding her for “security” on his debt.

  He got into the car and sat there for a few moments, staring at the house but not seeing it. He’d k
nown Monroe was getting antsy for his money, but he didn’t have any idea he was ready to go that far. Not yet. He’d thought he’d have more time. Time to make it up. Time for one more score. Now, it looked like time had run out, and he had no idea what to do.

  He opened the glove box of the old Buick and took the gun out. It was an old, battered .38 revolver that had belonged to his father. For a moment he thought of putting the gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. But if he did that, Callie would definitely die. Right now, he’d welcome death, but only if he knew Callie was safe. He’d failed her so badly, in so many ways, he could do one last thing for her. Maybe she would remember him with something more than disappointment and hatred if he could do that. As those thoughts went round and round in his head, a plan began to take shape. He shoved the gun back into the glove box and started the car.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wolf eased the picture back into the bag, then picked it up. “Okay,” he said. “First thing we do is send the pic to the lab at Quantico. Run it for prints, which is a long shot. But we can also see if we can ID the printer.”

  “The what?” Janine asked.

  “It’s a digital photo,” Wolf said. “Printed out on a computer printer. Different printer models have different signatures, a pattern of dots the manufacturer puts in. You can’t see them on printed out documents, except under blue or in some cases UV light. We may be able to get a make on the printer.”

  “Wait a minute,” Janine said. “You’re telling me that printers have, like, fingerprints?”

  Wolf nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Put on there by the people that make them?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “And they don’t tell us about this.”

  “No ma’am.”

  She tightened her lips. “Well, that doesn’t seem right to me.”

  “Maybe not, ma’am. But if it helps us find the girl…”

  She sighed. “Okay. We’ll argue about this another day.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Wolf said. “We’ll also run the pic through biometrics. See if we get any hits.”

  “Do I want to know what that is?” Janine said.

  “Facial recognition software,” Buckthorn said. “It compares the face with others in a database.”

  “Including online ones,” Wolf added. “If the girl has a Facebook or a Tumblr or a blog where she’s put her pictures up, the computer might be able to match one of those with this, and we’ll know who she is.”

  “I think I’m going to go home and put my computer in the trash bin,” Janine said. “I’m going to feel like I’m being watched every time I send an e-mail.” The two men didn’t answer. She gave Buckthorn an exasperated look. “This is the part where y’all are supposed to tell me I don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “You don’t have anything to worry about,” they said in ragged unison.

  “Great.”

  “So,” Buckthorn said, “you still like living in the twenty-first century?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder.”

  Wolf chuckled. “Come on, Deputy, I want you to meet my partner.”

  “She’s in the conference room,” Janine said, “looking over the other papers.”

  Buckthorn looked over at Wolf. “She?”

  Janine sighed. “Yes, Tim. She. There are female FBI agents these days, you know.” She looked at Wolf. “You’ll have to forgive Deputy Buckthorn,” she said. “He still hasn’t accepted the idea of women in law enforcement.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Buckthorn protested.

  “I definitely wouldn’t say it to Agent Dushane,” Wolf said. He started down the hall.

  Buckthorn felt his face reddening as he followed. “I don’t have a problem with women officers!”

  Janine, who’d fallen in beside him, snorted. “You just never hired any.”

  “We’ll discuss the Department’s gender discrimination problem later,” Wolf said. They’d arrived at the door to the conference room.

  “We don’t have a…” he stopped himself as he saw the person bending over the conference table. “Um, hello,” he said.

  The woman looked up from the papers spread out in front of her like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She was petite, only a little over five feet tall. She had a sharp-featured face with high, prominent cheekbones and dark, keen eyes. She looked as if she might have some Native American ancestry. Her long dark hair was gathered in a braid that fell down her back.

  “Don’t have a what?” she said. Then she noticed Buckthorn and straightened up. “Oh, hi,” she said. She walked over to him with a brisk, confident stride and stuck out her hand. “You must be Deputy Buckthorn,” she said. “I’m Leila Dushane.”

  He took the hand. “Tim Buckthorn.”

  She gave his hand two quick, firm shakes, then let it go. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Then she smiled. She had a nice smile, Buckthorn thought. “All of it good.”

  He smiled back. “Glad to hear it.”

  “So what do we have, L.D.?” Wolf said.

  The smile vanished and she shook her head. “We got nada, boss,” she said. “Most of this stuff’s so soggy it’s turned to goop. Mrs. Porter,” she gestured at Janine, “already got everything usable scanned in. We can go live with the Facebook page whenever you’re ready. Then all we need to do is get the word out and hope people start recognizing their pics and calling in.”

  “Gaby called me,” Wolf said. “She’s on her way down with a cameraman. She thinks they can make the 11:00.”

  “Great,” Dushane said tonelessly.

  “Be nice, L.D.” Wolf said.

  She gave him a transparently phony smile. “I’m always nice, boss,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.” Wolf turned to Buckthorn. “Agent Dushane doesn’t like getting the media involved in cases. And she really doesn’t approve of it when the reporter is my girlfriend.”

  “And Agent Wolf…” Dushane began, her voice harsh with anger. Then she cut herself off. Her lips tightened. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, then Wolf spoke again.

  “We need to get that picture up to Quantico,” he said. “Quickly.”

  “I got a Fed Ex package ready to go,” Janine said. “The guy’ll be here in a half hour.”

  Wolf nodded at her. “Impressive.”

  She looked back at him impassively. “It’s my job, Agent.”

  “I’m not underestimating you, Mrs. Porter,” Wolf said. “Truly.”

  “Good thing.”

  “But I’m getting the feeling that’s not the only problem you have with me.”

  Her expression didn’t change. “I don’t have a problem with you, Agent Wolf.”

  “Ma’am,” Wolf said, “I don’t think that’s completely true.”

  She bristled. “Are you calling me a liar, young man?”

  “See, that’s what I mean. That tone, right there. No, ma’am, I’m not calling you a liar. I’m thinking you’re too well brought up to let me know what you really think of me. Clearly you don’t think much of me. But I’d like to know why.”

  “Why do you think, Agent Wolf?” she blurted out. “What did you ever bring this town but death and misery?”

  “Janine,” Buckthorn started, but Wolf waved him off.

  “Mrs. Porter,” he said gently, “I am as deeply sorry as a man can be about what happened here before. It wasn’t anything I meant to do. I came here because it seemed like a safe place. I picked this place precisely because didn’t expect the people who were looking for me to ever find me here. But they did. And when they came, I did everything I could to help defend this town.”

  She looked at him for a moment, then lowered her head and sighed. “I know, hon, I know. I’m not bein’ fair to you. But Travis…one of the deputies that was killed…he was my nephew. My sister’s boy.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Wolf said.

  “I know. I know you are. But just do us all a favor, all right? Get done with whatever it is you hav
e to do, then go on. Go back to Charlotte, or Washington D.C, or wherever. Let us be.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Preston sat in the parking lot of the Bojangles next to the bank and watched the cars going in and out of the lot. It was a small branch, on one of the outparcels of a good-sized shopping center in a nondescript suburb of Chattanooga. Preston had done the books for a couple of the smaller stores in the center. He knew that not only they, but the big-box stores, such as Best Buy and Target, made regular deposits there, as did most of the smaller stores. Plus, it was Friday, payday, so he figured the place would be flush with cash. Maybe not all the cash he needed, but maybe enough to placate Monroe and his grandson and get Callie back.

  Preston had been in the place already and checked out the layout. He’d particularly noticed the overweight security guard who seemed to spend most of his time sitting down. When he did get up, he walked with a slight limp, as if he’d suffered some injury. Maybe a retired cop, long past his prime and put out to pasture.

  Preston wiped his brow. The sleeve of the light-colored hooded sweatshirt he’d bought at the sporting goods store in the shopping center came away dark with sweat. It was hot in the car, and it wasn’t going to get any cooler with him sitting here watching. Still, he hesitated. He’d never done anything criminal before. Well, the gambling. And the coke that made the gambling that much more of a thrill. But nothing really criminal. Nothing that involved holding people at gunpoint. He was forty-two years old. He was a bookkeeper, for God’s sake. But now, here he was, back to the wall, with a gun lying on the seat next to him and nowhere else to turn. He looked at the dashboard clock of the aging car. 4:45. It’d be closing time soon, and by then it’d be too late. For everyone, but especially for his daughter. He took a deep breath and got out of the car, sticking the gun in his waistband and pulling the bottom of the hoodie over it. He stood looking at the bank for a moment, then walked with a fast, determined stride towards the front door, like a man walking to battle.