And Then There Was One

by Patricia Gussin

  When they’d arrived this morning, Jackie had come to a full stop before entering. She’d looked up at Scott. “Dad,” she’d said, “I just wish we could see the Tigers play. Do they have a game today?”

  “I don’t know,” Scott told her. Scott, who had every major league team’s schedule etched in his brain, had not spoken one word of baseball since this had all begun. And now, he’d have to refocus. Whoever claimed they had Sammie and Alex was connected to baseball. Why else would the kidnapper contact the manager of the Yankees?

  Leaving Scott in the conference room, Katie took Jackie’s hand and walked toward the elevators. As they descended from the seventh floor, heading toward the food court in the basement, Jackie tried to ask Katie questions. “Mom, did Agent Camry say that they found Alex and Sammie? Are they okay? Who was that old boyfriend that Grandma was talking about? Did Daddy know that you had a boyfriend? Do you think Tina’s dad will be okay? Why did you yell at Agent Streeter and use that very bad word?” On and on. Katie had no answers, just two gaping holes in the triangle that used to be her life. Jackie’s questions went unanswered and ignored.

  As Scott walked into the large, rectangular conference room, the air was warm and musty. Too many agents with too many laptops and several big screens to display team rosters and lists of staffs. Names and faces of his professional contacts over the years. Was his daughters’ abductor on these lists? To find out, he’d need to focus, to concentrate even though he felt drained of every bit of logic and reason. For the past sixty-six hours, he’d been blaming Katie and her career, and now it seemed, the blame was on him.

  Could this be all about him? Not Katie? Not her perverts? Not her jealous ex-boyfriend, but him? Scott felt his heart hammer and sat down, grasping his head tightly between his hands so that it wouldn’t explode. Could there be something from his past, so heinous that payback meant taking his little girls? Or was this all about money? He and Katie were well off and the whole world knew about his sister’s wealth. Monica would part with every one of her dollars for Alex and Sammie’s safety, of that Scott was sure. So if it was about money, didn’t that mean a ray of hope? Scott hadn’t realized, but he’d started to cry, right in front of a roomful of federal agents.

  Streeter spoke first. “Mr. Monroe, we know how difficult this is for you, but we need your help here. We hope that you can shed some light on why this ransom demand came through the Yankee organization? Why would the kidnappers use the Yankee manager to get to you? Please, let’s start with your career as of now and work our way backward.”

  Streeter started probing the Yankee organization. The Bronx, Tampa, the majors, the Grapefruit League, George M. Steinbrenner Field and before that Legends Field, Scott’s home base. Was there dissent? Altercations, verbal or physical? Scott denied any. For two ruthless hours, agents rotated through team players with whom Scott had worked in the American League. As players and staffers clicked on, then off the screens with their bios and stats, Scott searched his mind for any connection or any clue that could trigger his daughters’ abduction. He failed to make a connection. Scott had always prided himself on getting along. Sure, a lot of jerks and losers had crossed his path, but he’d made the most of everybody’s positives and didn’t let the negatives stick in his craw. Or at least that’s how he’d thought of himself. Had he been that wrong? Somewhere in his career he must have antagonized a player or a coach or somebody to the point that his daughters would be used to get back at him.

  CHAPTER 19

  Tampa Little League to Hold Candlelight Service on Davis Island.

  — Local Tampa News, Wednesday, June 17

  Maxwell pushed the image of Adam aside as he walked into the appointed room at precisely noon. A bulky man with a gray ponytail — looking the same as he had the last time — sat at a square table. The man he knew as Vincent did not get up, and as usual, he wasted little energy or words. But he was dead-on efficient. Maxwell wondered how Vincent would choose to eliminate Adam.

  “Got the money?” Vincent asked. No pleasant chitchat.

  Maxwell set the shopping bag on the table and continued to stand.

  Vincent grunted as he opened the bag, fingered the bills.

  “It’s all there,” Maxwell said. “Just take care of it, fast.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure to meet your friend and conduct my business,” Vincent said, apparently satisfied that the required one hundred fifty grand had indeed been delivered.

  Maxwell turned toward the door. Feeling nauseous, his headache returning.

  “The details that I asked you for?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Maxwell fumbled in his pocket, found the package and handed it to Vincent. Photos of Adam. A photo of the villa in Nevis as well as the address and phone number.

  “You say that he’ll be here?” Vincent stabbed the image of the looming white villa.

  “Anywhere else he might hang out?”

  “He’s there to hide out. He’s not going anywhere.”

  Vincent pocketed the photos. “You better be right about that.”

  “Just get it done now,” Maxwell said. “Like before, do whatever you have to do. You hear?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m good on meeting my commitments, Mr. Cutty. Now you stay out of trouble.”

  Streeter had left the conference room, returning at noon to call for a lunch break. “We will need to continue this, Mr. Monroe. You’ve had a long career and we’ll move to the National League and then to the minors. Maybe something will trigger suspicion. Perhaps?”

  “Katie and Jackie?” Scott asked. “Are they still here?”

  “Yes, we’ve been going over the call-in leads. Dr. Monroe insisted, but I wish she’d take Jackie home. I have daughters of my own and I wouldn’t want —”

  “I’ve tried. Katie has some kind of paranoia,” Scott tried to explain. “But who can blame her? She’s always been the best mother with the best instincts that I’ve ever seen, but now —”

  “Let’s get you out to them. It’s a nice day, maybe you could take a walk. Go to the stadium. Tigers are in St. Louis today, though.”

  “I’m just too beat up and confused, I don’t know what to do.”

  Scott tried to get up, but felt his knees buckle and he slumped back in the chair. Suddenly his vision blurred and his heart raced. He grasped the edge of the table to check the surge of dizziness. His doctor had suggested that he cut back on caffeine. Today he’d had too many cups of coffee to count and had eaten little.

  “Maybe if I got something to eat?” He tried again and this time stood without getting dizzy.

  Streeter took him to Katie, who was speaking quietly to the agent monitoring incoming calls reporting Alex and Sammie sightings. Jackie sat limp beside her, her crossword book open and unattended.

  Katie left her post and the three of them headed to the cafeteria, hand in hand. Just feeling Katie’s touch immediately made Scott feel stronger, more physically stable. She asked if anything was new.

  He shook his head. “I know what you’ve been going through, babe. Lots of questions. No answers. No leads whatsoever that I could identify. Anything come up here? All this —” Scott said over the top of Jackie’s head.

  “Dad, does anybody know where Alex and Sammie are?” Jackie asked. Her tone held no hope and her question was ignored.

  “So many people calling in,” Katie sighed. “So many false reports. So many sightings; so many disappointments; so many nothings. Last caller said a lady bought twin beds at her garage sale. Lady looked suspicious. Nothing else. Just bought twin beds and looked suspicious. Believe it or not the FBI will check it out.”

  Manny Gonzalos donned a muddy brown sweat suit, changed into sneakers, exchanged his gray wig for a dark brown one with a bald patch, and followed Cutty. This prick of a client had no remorse. Just kill the wife. Just kill the boyfriend. Just kill. But who was he to pass judgment? He no longer kept count of his hits. For him, it was a job. No emotional entanglements.

  From a window
, Manny observed Cutty walk out onto the busy street, keeping him in sight, sweeping the small binoculars in a circular pattern. This was his routine, and today he was taking every precaution. His sleazy customer had not mentioned anything about the missing Monroe children. Through his police informant, Manny knew that Cutty was a person of interest in their disappearance, and he knew that the feds had nothing on him. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken this job; he’d vowed to never get involved when the hit involved kids. And now, as two men in dark, conservative suits, which screamed FBI, followed Cutty at a conservative distance, he knew he’d made a mistake. Had this been about the hit he’d done on Olivia Cutty, the cops would be local, not feds, and Manny would have had a heads-up from his man in the Tampa force.

  No matter, the feds had followed the stupid fuck to Ybor City. That made Cutty a liability that Manny could ill afford. He had no choice. It was not the first time he’d run into complications and had to take out his own client. Manny could not risk the fed’s interrogation of a coward like Cutty. The die was cast; he had only to choose the means. His arsenal of methods started to cycle though his mind as he logically evaluated his options. Cutty had gotten into a white Lexus sedan. The guys in suits got in a plain black sedan, and Manny followed in his tan paneled van.

  Adam Kaninsky would have a few more hours added to his life, but Manny would get to him. A deal is a deal. And loose ends are loose ends.

  CHAPTER 20

  Obama’s Health Care Plan Sidetracked by Economic Woes.

  — National News, Wednesday, June 17

  A male nurse, burly and bearded, barged into his hospital room just as Norman Watkins had drifted off to sleep. Why were hospitals so noisy at night? And why had they refused his request for a sleeping pill? And now, what did they want?

  “You’re outta here.” The nurse unlocked the manacle on his ankle, and removed the straps binding his wrists to the rail of the hospital bed.

  The nurse wasn’t alone. Two men in dark suits, one tall, one squat, hovered at the foot of the bed.

  “Put these on, dude.” The nurse tossed a bundle of puke green clothes at him. Prison issue.

  The squat one, not yet identified but an obvious federal agent, pulled out a set of cuffs and jangled them as Norman picked up the ugly, wrinkled pants and shirt. “You’re coming with us.”

  The taller man checked his watch. “Hurry it up, man. Streeter wants you now.”

  “Can’t I see my wife?” Norman figured the request was worth a chance. By now, Connie must know where he was. She’d be royally pissed. After all the promises he’d made. And he’d meant them. And now it all came down to this. He was headed back to prison. He’d made the wrong choice, again. He supposed that made him a defective person. His life had turned back to shit. He was not worth a goddamn. Of no use to Connie. And Tina? She’d be better off without him.

  For Norman it was like an epiphany. Like when God came down and struck Paul, or Saul, as he was called, off that big white horse. Like a clear message. Only for Norman, he would not be going forth and speaking in tongues. The only use for his tongue was to tell Connie and Tina that he was sorry. That he had screwed up their lives one more time.

  Neither of the suits bothered to respond to his request to talk to his wife. The agents had launched into an animated discussion of the Detroit Tiger’s standing in the American league. The squat one just kept jangling the handcuffs. The tall one deliberately brushed his jacket back just far enough for Norman to see the gun. For a moment Norman stared at it. Despite time in the joint, he didn’t know much about guns. Never even had held one. Didn’t know the difference between a pistol and a revolver or even if there was a difference. He seemed to recall that one had a safety; the other didn’t. He pondered that uncertainty as the male nurse followed him into the bathroom, watched him whiz, and supervised the removal of the polka-dot hospital gown.

  “Speed it up, man.” The bearded nurse vainly flexed his biceps as Norman changed into drab green prison gear.

  Securing him by one arm, the nurse led Norman toward the waiting agents near the lobby. Norman kept his head down, trudging as if sedated. Now close to the two agents, the nurse dropped his hold. Like a good con, Norman extended his hands to be cuffed.

  All baseball banter came to a violent halt when Norman, hands pressed together and extended, lurched toward the taller agent, the one with the open suit jacket and exposed weapon. Intimidated, scared, but committed, Norman grabbed for the gun. It was easier than he thought to yank it out of the shoulder holster with one hand as his other grappled with the stunned agent. For an instant he held the weapon solidly in his hand and stared. It was heavier than he’d expected. But time was not on his side, and Norman did not hesitate. A dedicated family man, he could not put Connie and Tina through this again. With an expression of awe, Norman lifted the gun, bringing the barrel perpendicular to the agent’s chest.

  No one knew whether Norman heard the blast as his body jerked backward against the bulky male nurse before it slumped onto the dusky gray tile, a gaping hole marring the forehead.

  Uneaten sandwiches and an open, nearly full potato chip bag remained on the table when the three Monroes left the cafeteria. Mostly they had remained silent. Even Jackie had given up trying for answers to her unending questions. After thirty-five minutes, Katie checked her watch and suggested that Scott return to the conference room to complete his interrogation. Katie said that she would spend time with Jackie in the reception area. But both she and Scott knew that she wouldn’t stay. Within minutes, she would rejoin the agents going over new sightings.

  “You sure you don’t want to go back to your Mom’s, take Jackie?” Scott posed the question, again. “This could take a long time.”

  “No, we’ll wait here. Scott, I’m so scared. I don’t want to be away from you.”

  “Okay, babe, but they want me to go over almost everybody in professional baseball.”

  Scott hugged Katie and Jackie before he disappeared back into the conference room. On the way back to the reception area, Jackie spotted Tina and Connie Watkins coming out of a small room.

  “There’s Tina and her mom,” she pointed out. “They look so sad. Do you think her dad is still in jail?”

  “He’s in the hospital,” Katie said.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know,” Katie said, unwilling to explain the suspected faked convulsion.

  Then Katie stopped short. Should she try to talk to Connie? Would it do any good? Connie might know something. She decided to approach her.

  “Mom, please, don’t get into another argument,” Jackie said, tugging on Katie’s shirt sleeve. “Look, they’re both crying, real hard.”

  As Katie headed toward Tina and Connie, Connie grabbed her daughter, shielding her with her body.

  “If he dies, it’s because you killed him,” Connie shrieked. Her tearstained, bloodshot eyes stared at Katie. “As surely as if you’d pulled the trigger. You put Norman away once. Maybe now you put him away forever.” Connie spun Tina around and shoved her forward, close to where Jackie stood, riveted. “See my little girl. All Tina wanted was to have her Dad. You bitch, you murderous bitch. You deserve what happened to your precious daughters.” Then she yanked Tina back into her arms.

  Katie’s eyes started rapid-fire blinking, but all she could do was gape at Connie dragging Tina away from them.

  “Tina, I’m sorry about your dad,” Jackie said loud enough for all to hear.

  “Thank you, Jackie,” Tina said through tears. “It’s not your fault.”

  Agent Camry appeared at that moment. “I think you should go now, Mrs. Watkins,” she said.

  Katie turned to Camry. “Can’t you keep her here? What if she knows where Sammie and Alex are? You’re going to just let her go?”

  By then Tina and Connie Watkins had turned the corner, and Camry ushered Katie and Jackie back into the conference room.

  “Tell me how this could have happened!” Streeter yelle
d, waving the paper in front of the task force as every ashen face turned downward to inspect the surface of the cluttered table. Camry repeated what he’d already heard. “The suspect faked a seizure while in custody. The docs pronounced him perfectly healthy. Our agents were with him as he changed from hospital to prison garb. Then the guy flipped out. Grabbed a weapon off an agent. Aimed it. Our guys had no choice, sir. They had to take him down.”

  “Shit. What’s his status?” Streeter demanded.

  “He’s in neurosurgery,” Camry said. “Critical, they say. Bullet entered the head.” She pointed to the middle of her forehead.

  “So he’s not dead?”

  “No, he’s not dead, but the prognosis is bad. Even if he lives, the neurologist says he’ll be brain dead.

  “With this guy’s brain may go the whereabouts of those little girls,” Streeter said. He had moved Norman Watkins up to being his strongest suspect. Why else would the man be in Detroit on the exact day the kids were taken, and for what? A lame “sick mother” excuse?

  “The guy was either crazy or intended to take himself out,” Camry said. “No way was he going to escape from a hospital prison ward without getting whacked.”

  “A suicide right in front of our eyes – a police suicide.” Streeter’s blue eyes blazed with anger. “How the hell did we let that happen?”

  No response, but there’d be hell to pay for the Norman Watkins screw up. Streeter could well pay with his job.

  Streeter had had only two suspects, three if he counted Franklin, which he did not. Watkins and Cutty. Of the two, he’d liked Watkins better. Now Watkins wouldn’t be talking anytime soon, if ever. That left Cutty. It was time to interrogate him in person. That meant going to Tampa. Despite Katie Monroe’s insistence, they hadn’t had enough incriminating evidence to haul him up to Detroit.