by Linda Ladd
“Shut up and don’t move,” the cop yelled.
They were all shouting, trying to intimidate them, and Novak knew why. He’d done the same thing. They had burst into a room where a brutal beating was going on. They would assume the blood-covered, unconscious guy on the floor was the victim and the other two were the bad guys. This was not going to end well for him and Frank. The cops were well trained and efficient and had them subdued and handcuffed and an ambulance called for Locke within minutes. The actor was out for the count, barely able to breathe, and no longer of a cocky bent, needless to say.
“We can explain everything.” Novak tried to reason with the officers again, once the pandemonium had died down. Not true, but he could wing it a bit, maybe, once they found the girls next door and heard their stories of abduction and forced prostitution.
“You’ll get that chance downtown. Stand up and don’t try anything, big guy.”
Novak was determined to be heard. “You need to listen to me, officer. That guy lying there, he’s been holding underage girls captive next door. One of their victims is that other man’s thirteen-year-old daughter.” He nodded his head at Frank’s prone figure. “Frank’s trying to find her before it’s too late. They’re selling these kids for sex. Check it out, if you don’t believe me. Go next door, right over there, and ask them. Our friend is in there protecting them in case this guy’s guards show back up. A woman named Lori Garner; she’s a former military cop. I’m telling you the truth. They’ll back me up. Just talk to them.”
“Your friend practically killed this guy. He’s gonna get charged with felony battery or worse, so you better hope he doesn’t die. You’re going down with aiding and abetting.”
“That guy is no victim. He’s a child trafficker, and I can prove it. Please, check out the house next door. We tracked these guys down and rescued those girls over there. Go find them. They’ve all been kidnapped and sold to somebody in Los Angeles. They’ll tell you, they’ll corroborate every word I’m saying. We were trying to find out where Frank’s kid is, and then we planned to turn Locke over to you.”
“Yeah, turn him over to us dead. The neighbors saved you the trouble by calling us.” The cop turned around and ordered a couple of men to check out the houses on either side. “Get up, both of you. We’re taking you in.”
Novak tried to reason some more but to no avail. Stephen was in bad shape, and Frank gave new meaning to the term caught red-handed. This night had gone from bad to worse. Novak went along with the cops peacefully, but he was angry. The cops were simply doing their job. He couldn’t blame them. If they were good cops and once they had questioned the girls, they’d either let them go and charge Locke or charge all of them. He hoped the arresting officer wasn’t on the Locke payroll.
They were escorted out through the front door and across the walled patio to a wrought-iron gate and then shoved into the back seat of separate patrol cars. All the lights were now on next door. He hoped Lori came up with the right explanation. He was pretty sure she would and might find enough camaraderie with the policemen to make a difference. The girls would be happy to tell them the truth. They would be believed because all they wanted was to go home with their parents. They’d be pleased to have police protection.
All the neighbors in the cul-de-sac stood around outside their homes, attired in bathrobes and slippers, watching the excitement, most of them talking on cell phones and looking scared but fascinated while the revolving lights from multiple police cars and ambulances colored their faces with alternating flashes of blue and white. As Novak was driven off in the first car, he could see Lori being rolled out on a gurney. She was on her way to the hospital instead of jail, and that was the only good thing that had happened. No sign of the girls. That couldn’t be good. They should be taken to a hospital, too.
After processing him and taking down his information at the station, the cops stuck him in an interrogation room and cuffed him to an iron ring on the table. Frank was probably in the next room, receiving similar accommodations. They made him wait for over an hour. He couldn’t hear anything; the room was soundproofed. No food or drink or last cigarette was offered. Nope, but his interrogators were definitely behind that large two-way mirror in front of him, watching his every move for psycho tendencies. It took some effort not to display his growing anxiety.
Good things: the girls were safe and Lori was being treated for her reopened wound, and Stephen Locke was out of commission, at least for a time but probably for good. He hoped that by now the judge and Hennessey were blaming each other for their losses of drugs and property, enough to put out mob hits on each other. That would be grand but probably was not going to happen. Right now, he just wanted out of that stifling hot room. He wanted to find this guy named Mike Mickey and beat the shit out of him. Lucy was in the producer’s hands now, but she would be moved somewhere else the minute word of Stephen Locke’s assault got back to him.
Novak had used his one phone call to get in touch with Claire Morgan. She hadn’t picked up at her end, but he’d left a message asking her to arrange bail for Frank and him and Lori, if they charged her. She’d come through with that request, he had no doubt. She always had his back, no matter what. At the moment, he wished she and Nicholas Black were in town to help them finish this thing. They needed the cavalry to ride in. Things were at a standstill, and it couldn’t be a worse time to do nothing. Frank would be the hardest to bail out. He had beaten a rich and famous actor to within an inch of his life. On the other hand, he was trying to find his daughter and save those girls from a life in sexual slavery. That had to rate a few brownie points. Maybe the cops would be merciful. Maybe the judge would have a preteen daughter. Novak wasn’t counting on either.
Another hour passed. They were probably saving him for last, making him sweat it out. That turned out to be true. Finally, after three long hours, a guy dressed in plain clothes sauntered in, wearing black sweatpants and a T-shirt emblazoned with POLICE, all smiley and fake and courteous of Novak’s needs. “Hello, sir. I’m Antonio Puryear. Detective lieutenant here at SPD. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Yeah, right, Novak thought, and I’m a turkey hawk. “Will Novak.”
The detective sat down across from him. He placed a manila file on the table, opened it, and looked through its contents with great interest that was strictly for show. He knew what was in that file before he stepped foot into the room. Then he looked up and met Novak’s steady regard. “You’re an interesting man, now aren’t you?”
“You think so?”
Puryear nodded. “Served your country honorably for many years. At ground zero on 9/11. Decorated Navy SEAL. Why’d a man like you end up in this mess?”
“You know why. You’ve already talked to my colleagues, I assume. Both of them also served honorably in the military. We’re the good guys in this thing.”
“That’s funny. Stephen Locke’s face doesn’t bear that out.”
“He’s lucky he doesn’t look a lot worse. He’s a brutal abuser and sex trafficker of children. As is his father, the Honorable Calvin Locke of Galveston, Texas.”
“So I’ve been told, twice already. Okay, now let’s talk about the crimes you perpetrated inside our fair city.”
“We rescued seven young girls being forced into a life that equates with hell on earth and degradation and physical and sexual abuse. Then we roughed up their abuser a little in order to find my partner’s abducted kid. You got a problem with any of that?”
“Not so much, maybe. You’ll be glad to hear that all those girls backed up everything you and your friends told us. They say they were approached and seduced by young men who took them by force once they were liquored up. Most are still here at the station, waiting for their parents that you guys so kindly called for them.”
“Frank Caloroso’s little girl isn’t waiting here for him.”
“No, she is not. If I release you and
your buddy, will you stop with this vigilante crap?”
“Sure. I straight-out promise you.” He faked sincerity.
Puryear wasn’t fooled. He grinned. “Smartass, aren’t you?”
“Tonight’s been rather trying.”
“You’ve somehow managed to worm yourself out of some serious shit, Novak. Lori Garner is now undergoing emergency surgery, if you’re interested. Caloroso’s going to be released, too. I had to pull some major strings to get his charges dropped. But I believe you’re telling me the truth. It’s a good thing those girls backed you up.”
“Good, we appreciate it.”
“You also had some important people putting in calls on your behalf to the chief and district attorney. Nicholas Black is the one who tipped the scale for me personally. I assume you know he’s a forensic psychologist. He called us himself and offered to put up bail for the three of you. We worked with him on a double murder a few years back, so we know he’s a standup guy and wouldn’t vouch for you if you weren’t okay. He testified for the department at a big trial, which pretty much nailed the accused. He says you work in private investigation with his wife. Any or all of that true?”
“All true. We’re one big happy family most of the time.”
Puryear sighed. “Want to know the truth? I’ve got a sixteen-year-old daughter. I’d probably have done worse than Caloroso if I found the guy who subjected her to what those girls have suffered.” Frowning, he paused. “Do I need to warn you that things won’t go down so well next time if you end up down here again?”
“No, sir, I get it.”
“We’re charging Caloroso with misdemeanor battery but letting him go on Black’s bond. That’s a stretch. That guy’s face will never look the same again. Your friend’s gonna have to show up here for a hearing someday, too. Will that be a problem?”
“No, sir. We’ll be there.”
“You keep his nose clean, understand?”
They stared solemnly at each other, taking good measure. Both knew that Novak and Frank would do whatever it took to get Lucy back unharmed. Puryear slapped the folder shut. “Okay, you’re free to go. Good luck, man. You’re going to need it if you keep pulling this kind of stuff.”
Novak stood up as Puryear unlocked the cuffs and followed him out into the hallway. He saw Frank waiting with another cop at the outside door. Nobody else was in sight.
“Watch where you go next and what you do there,” Puryear warned again. “The next cop may not be as understanding as we are.”
“Thanks. We owe you.”
“Just get the hell out of here. Don’t come back to my city except for the court hearing.”
They obliged in a hurry.
Outside the station, they found reporters congregated at the front of the building, drawn, no doubt, by Stephen Locke’s fame. All had cameras and microphones ready to annoy and pursue. Puryear showed them out a side door that led to the police parking lot.
“What, no ride provided back to our vehicle?” Novak asked Puryear.
“Fat chance. Call an Uber.”
The two of them stepped out into the cool early-morning air. Puryear shut and locked the door behind them. They stood there together a moment, breathing in the damp desert smell. It had been raining, believe it or not. Unusual for Phoenix. The tarmac in the deserted lot glittered with silver droplets. The streetlamps were engulfed in pale auras that looked surreal. Thunder growled somewhere behind the dark outline of the mountains.
“You okay?” Novak asked Frank. “I see they bandaged your knuckles.”
“I cannot believe they just let us go.” They stood silently, and then Frank sighed. “What now?”
“Now we go to Los Angeles and find us one sleazy producer named Mike Mickey. We can sleep on the plane. You think you can keep going with that busted hand?”
“Hell, yeah.”
Unfortunately, things didn’t turn out so easy. They walked out a gate in the parking lot to a deserted one-way street where Novak dialed up Uber. While they waited for the car to show up, a green Suburban with smoked windows pulled in. It was not the Uber; no obsequious driver got out and opened the door for them. Instead, two burly guys with gigantic biceps jumped out and pointed some serious weapons in their faces. One kept his gun on them while the other guy frisked them and relieved them of their handguns. Right outside a police station. Well, shit. This just wasn’t their day.
Chapter 23
After about twenty minutes of dead silence on the road with guns pointed at their heads, Frank asked the obvious question. “Where the hell are you taking us?”
“Shut up, bitch.”
“That’s rude,” Novak told the mouthy guy. “How about we start with something simple, like ‘Who the hell are you and want do you want with us?’”
Silence.
These guys weren’t smart, either, Novak thought. Guess it was hard to get good hoodlums nowadays. Most weren’t required to graduate high school: kill somebody and you’re in. Novak made several oral assumptions. “Okay, we’re headed west out of Phoenix. That would make one think we’re headed out to L.A. You happen to know a producer there by the name of Mike Mickey, perchance?”
In the front seat, the two guys exchanged startled looks that pretty much equated with “uh oh.” They knew him all right.
“Well, great, we were headed out there to see him anyway. You saved us plane fare.” That was Frank.
“Shut up or I’ll shut you up.”
Frank wasn’t put off by the threat. “Please don’t scare me like this. I’ve already hurt my hand beating a guy’s face off. You’re gonna make me cry.”
That smartass remark earned Frank a hard cuff to the side of his jaw from the guy behind them. After that, nobody seemed to have much else to add. These guys possessed hair-trigger tempers; Novak’s guess was that they were Tinsel Town enforcers working for the idle rich and famous. They did not speak with Texan or Arizonan accents. More like Southern California surfer boys with guns. With nothing else to do, Frank propped his head on the window and dozed off. Novak sat there for a while and worried about Lori’s condition. She was being taken care of by doctors now, which was a good thing, but she was probably handcuffed to the bed, which wasn’t a good thing. Maybe not, since they were bounced out, she would be, too. Claire and Black would make sure of it. He would feel better if she was with them. He’d grown accustomed to her grit, and Judge Locke’s people were still after her.
With Judith dead, the three of them were on the kill list, too. They’d attempted to assassinate Lori inside a hospital once before; they might try it again. Yep, the girl was beginning to grow on him. Then he thought about Leslie Taylor, and it hurt him to think about what she’d suffered and how it was his fault, so he tried to push the image of her head on that spike out of his mind. That didn’t come easy and never would.
They didn’t reach the outer limits of Los Angeles until the next afternoon. The crazy interlocking mass of freeways, cloverleafs, and eight-lane highways were clogged with thousands of cars all commuting into and out of the city. Novak had been in L.A. plenty of times, so he knew they were headed in the general direction of the Hollywood Hills. An hour later and much too long fighting inching traffic, they pulled up in front of a fancy gate that heralded Southern Skies Studios in shiny brass script. Novak was pretty sure they had been summoned to town by the big cheese himself. Why? That was a good question, and most likely the answer was dangerous to their health. They’d know soon enough, and they weren’t yet somewhere out in the Arizona desert digging their own graves. That was always a plus. Inside the hectic environs of the studio grounds, the driver dropped them off at a large single-story bungalow painted maroon, though most of the walls consisted of dark plate-glass windows. A fancy sign out front said: Michael Mickey, Owner/CEO/Executive Producer.
They were herded inside like a couple of mangy mutts jerked into
a dog pound and commanded to sit in the waiting room with their two inconsiderate guards standing on both sides and watching them like hunting hawks. They had guns out and everything, and in front of Mickey’s elderly secretary, too. Her nameplate said she was Imogene McClure. She had hair just going gray, dyed black with swaths of silver like Lily Munster. She had sharp eyes and sharper pale blue fingernails and a superior attitude. She eyed them with unveiled suspicion, told them to take their seats, and went about typing with those weaponized nails and answering the phone, which never stopped ringing.
Novak sat down and gauged his chances of taking down the two guards without Imogene getting hurt or killed, and dismissed the idea as less than feasible. He had to wait. Be patient. He had always been calm and non-reactionary in dangerous situations, so no problem. On the other hand, Caloroso was not the serene type. He politely asked Imogene where the men’s bathroom was located and set off with one of their guards. Novak half expected the other guy to come back in a body bag. That didn’t happen, but Frank returned looking more awake and ready to face whatever came next.
After twenty minutes of dead silence except for the tap-tap of Mickey’s executive assistant’s nimble fingers on the keyboard, the studio head strolled in. Novak recognized him at once. He was a handsome man, maybe in his sixties. Snow-white hair and a short well-groomed beard. Friendly face. Big smile. Polite. He seemed pretty damn happy to see them. He carried a cocktail glass in one hand, and because of the salted rim Novak surmised it to be a margarita. He hoped he offered them a drink. Novak could use one. He did not. Instead, Mickey walked straight over to him and stretched out his hand. Mr. Friendly. He better enjoy that wide smile while he still had teeth. “Hey, big guy. Thank you so much for coming. Hope you had an enjoyable journey.”
“Might’ve been better without all those guns stuck in our faces,” Frank interjected. “So, what’s up with that, anyway? In other words, where the hell do you get off forcing us out here at gunpoint?”
