by Laura Scott
“I know.” Marc shrugged. “But with all the concern across the country about officer-involved shootings, we’ve been working really closely with MPD’s internal affairs. Personally, I’m glad they made an exception in this case.”
“Was that before or after Dad’s murder?” Matt asked.
“After,” Marc acknowledged. “But the investigation didn’t go very far. There wasn’t enough evidence.” Marc’s smile was crooked. “Apparently we should have asked for assistance from a certain private investigator.”
Mike was glad his brothers seemed to have forgiven him for taking their notes and evidence. “I missed identifying Scarletti the first time around. But I think he’s our guy.”
“Not just him,” Mitch corrected. “Where there’s one dirty cop, there’re likely more.”
Mike nodded. Mitch had a right to be wary after being framed by his own boss almost a year ago. Sometimes the people you trusted the most were the ones who stabbed you in the back. Mike glanced at his watch. “When do you think Noah and Maddy will get here?”
“Within the hour,” Matt confirmed. “A little longer since they’re planning to stop to pick up lunch for the group along the way.”
“Sounds good.” Mike turned his attention back to the investigation. “I think our next step should be to reach out to some of the top brass at MPD. Kirk Stoltz was always a good friend of our dad’s. I think he would be our best choice to tap for inside information.”
“We could also try Gordon Beecher,” Matt added, leaning over to scratch Duchess behind the ears. “He’s the chief’s second-in-command. A neutral party might be helpful.”
“Speaking of which,” Mitch interrupted. “Didn’t you date Shayla before Dad died? While you were still in the academy?”
Mike shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the line of questioning and their meddling in his personal life. “Yes, but what does that have to do with anything? Stay focused, will you? Yeah, her father is the chief of police, but he’s recuperating in the hospital from open-heart surgery. And her brother, Duncan, is in the wind.”
Marc whistled under his breath. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not.” Mike gestured toward the second timeline. “As you can see, Duncan met with Lane Walters, the suspected leader of the Dark Knights, near the apartment building where Walters lives. It’s possible Duncan is attempting to infiltrate the organization, working undercover for the MPD.”
“Wait a minute.” Mitch unrolled the blueprints of the two-story apartment building. “I remember looking at Walters. He lives in the corner apartment, here.” He tapped the bottom right corner of the blueprint.
Mike leaned over to see what his brother was referring to. “Okay, that makes sense.”
“No, you’re missing the point. See this?” Mitch pointed to an opening with slash lines through them. “This is the only apartment in the building that has direct access to the basement. But what’s really interesting is that there’s another doorway from the basement leading outside, over here on the opposite side of the place.” Mitch drew a line across the length of the building. “I remember thinking that this was how the shooter may have escaped the night of Dad’s murder.”
Mike stared. He’d taken Mitch’s blueprints but had missed that key piece of information.
How many other important clues had he missed?
He’d been so incredibly stupid. And arrogant. This was exactly why cops often created a task force. Because having several different viewpoints while working on a case was far more valuable than one.
Guilt and regret washed over him. He never should have tried to investigate his father’s murder on his own.
With a jerk, he shoved away from the table, needing distance from his brothers. He crossed over to the counter and filled his coffee mug, his thoughts whirling.
They’d got over him borrowing their notes, but he wasn’t so sure he could forgive himself.
“Hey, Mike, remember Eddie Jarvis?” Matt asked. “He was in your academy graduating class, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.” Mike pushed his emotional turmoil aside and turned to face his brother. “What about him?”
“He was partnered briefly with Scarletti,” Matt said. “Guess who he’s related to?”
“Who?” Mike said, growing irritated.
“Lane Walters. Apparently they’re cousins on his mom’s side of the family.”
“Being related doesn’t automatically make you a criminal,” he protested, returning to the table to see what Matt had up on the computer screen.
“No, but it’s a link. Something to add to your timeline.”
“The threads are starting to come together,” Marc agreed. “We absolutely have to take this to Kirk Stoltz or Gordon Beecher.”
“Why not both?” Mitch asked. “What’s the harm? The more people who know, the better chance we have of uncovering the truth.”
“Maybe,” Mike agreed. His instincts were to stick with the people who were personally involved with their father. “Let’s start with Kirk Stoltz. Remember how upset he was at Dad’s funeral? He’s the one more likely to bend a few rules to find justice for Dad.”
“That’s true,” Matt agreed. Duchess started growling low in her throat and he silenced her with a stern look. “I’m with you, Mike. Let’s do it.”
Duchess began to growl again, her dark gaze seemingly locked on the cabin door.
“What’s wrong, Dutch?” Matt asked.
“Maybe she wants to go out to play with Brodie.” Mike peered out the window, expecting to see Shayla and Brodie near the swing set. But there was no sign of them. “That’s weird.”
“What?” Matt asked.
Fear gnawed at him. Mike strode toward the door. “They’re not on the playground. Give me a minute to track them down.”
“We’ll take Duchess with us,” Matt said, jumping to his feet.
“Let’s all go.” Mitch flanked Mike on one side while Marc joined them.
The clearing outside the cabin was empty. One of the swings swayed back and forth in the breeze, but there was no sign of other cabin renters around, either.
“Shayla! Brodie!” Mike shouted, hearing the lonely echo of his voice reflecting back at him. “Where are you?”
There was no response.
“Where are they?” Mike asked, frustration lacing his tone. “If she took a walk without telling me...” His voice trailed off as he realized Shayla wouldn’t do that.
Not with Brodie.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, turning to his brothers. “Something has happened to them.”
“Easy now, don’t panic,” Marc warned.
“Why don’t you get something of Shayla’s?” Matt suggested. “Duchess can track her scent.”
“Good idea.” Mike didn’t waste any time but hurried inside, returning with Shayla’s sweater. “Try this.”
Matt held the sweater up to his K-9’s nose. “Find, Duchess,” he ordered. “Find!”
Duchess dropped her nose to the ground and began making circles near the swing set, alerting at Shayla’s scent.
“Good girl,” Matt praised. “Find!”
Duchess moved in what appeared to be a random pattern, but eventually made her way toward the path Shayla had taken the night before. Mike’s hopes plummeted. Duchess had obviously picked up Shayla’s scent from yesterday.
But the dog continued down the path, sniffing and circling, sitting and then going down the path again. When Duchess continued past the cluster of trees Shayla had stopped at the night before, Mike was filled with renewed hope.
The K-9 led them to a clearing. Duchess made another circle and then sat, alerting at Shayla’s scent.
“Good girl,” Matt praised again. “Find!”
Duchess didn’t move. Mike felt sick as he approached the area.
“Tire tracks,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Marc came over and knelt beside the imprint. “They look fresh, but there’s no way to say for sure.”
“Except that Duchess followed Shayla’s scent here and then lost it.” Mike lifted his tortured gaze to his brother’s, knowing deep in his heart that he’d failed in his promise to keep them safe.
“Shayla and Brodie have been kidnapped.”
* * *
Battling panic, Shayla held Brodie close, trying to comfort him as he cried against her. She told herself to focus on the highway signs, keeping track of the route they were taking. She also tried to catch the eyes of other drivers, thinking she could somehow signal distress, but there wasn’t that much traffic on the roads and no one in the vehicles around them paid any attention.
She hoped that maybe a cop would notice that Brodie wasn’t in a child safety seat and pull them over. Unfortunately she didn’t see any law enforcement vehicles as they headed into Milwaukee.
“Where are you taking us?” she demanded, trying to sound confident instead of scared to death.
Both the driver and the man with the gun ignored her.
“Did you hear me?” She swallowed hard, trying not to show the extent of her fear. “I want to know where you’re taking us!”
“Silence,” the gunman barked.
Brodie’s sobs increased in volume and she quickly turned her attention to soothing her son. “Shh, Brodie. It’s okay. Don’t cry, we’re going to be okay.”
“I wanna go home,” Brodie sobbed.
“I know.” She couldn’t bear to think about the fact that they may never get back to Nashville.
That they may not survive the day. After all, these were the same men who’d tried to shoot her several times over. What would stop them from pulling over into some remote location and killing her and Brodie outright?
No! She didn’t want to die!
Fear and desperation clawed at her throat, threatening to overwhelm her. She knew she needed to stay strong for Brodie, but it was hard to think about anything other than the dire fate that awaited them.
She’d never felt so helpless in her entire life.
“Brodie, let’s pray, okay? The way Daddy taught us to.”
Brodie continued to cry.
“Dear Lord,” she said out loud, a tremor in her tone. “We ask You to keep us safe in Your care. We ask You to steer these two men away from evil and encourage them to show mercy on us. Heavenly Father, if we are to die today at the hands of these men, please bring us up to live with You in Heaven. We ask this in Your name. Amen.”
The gunman shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the gun he pointed at her didn’t waver. She wasn’t sure that her prayer would change his intentions on what to do with them, but it couldn’t hurt.
“Please, Lord, keep us safe in Your care,” she repeated, determined to find a way to get through to these men. “Come on, Brodie, pray with me,” she urged. “Lord God, we ask that You steer these men away from their evil path and show them the light of goodness—”
“Knock it off,” the gunman abruptly growled in a threatening tone. “Shut up or I’ll shoot you both here and now.”
She didn’t dare look at him, but kept her head bowed over her son. Instead of stopping, she simply lowered her voice to a whisper, her mouth near Brodie’s ear. “God is watching over us, Brodie. He’ll protect us and keep us safe.”
“Amen,” Brodie whispered in response to the prayer.
Instantly she felt a sense of calm wash over her. She and Brodie were not alone in the car with these men. God was with them. Maybe they would survive this or maybe they wouldn’t. But they’d never be alone. And she held fast to the belief that Mike and the rest of the Callahans would find her and Brodie before it was too late.
The gunman didn’t say anything else, avoiding her gaze. Another fifteen minutes passed in complete silence and when she felt the vehicle slow down, she glanced over to take note they were leaving the interstate.
Keeping up with the street signs proved futile. Some she recognized, but others she didn’t, which wasn’t a surprise considering she’d been away from Milwaukee for the past four years.
The neighborhood around them grew more run-down and she suppressed a shiver.
Being in this area of the city didn’t bode well for what they might face when they reached their final destination. And the more time that passed since she and Brodie had left the playground outside the cabin, the less likely it would be that Mike would find them.
Brodie shifted against her. Something hard pressed along her right side and she belatedly realized that she still had one of the disposable phones.
Hope flickered in her chest, her mind racing with possibilities. She absolutely couldn’t afford for these men to search her and find it. Her right side was near the passenger door and she subtly moved her right arm from Brodie, trying to figure out a way to get to the phone deep in the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt.
The vehicle slowed again, the driver taking a sharp right turn. The movement shifted her to the left and she quickly wrapped both arms around Brodie to keep him firmly against her.
She inwardly groaned when the driver pulled into the parking lot tucked behind an apartment building. She was running out of time!
Why hadn’t she thought of the phone sooner?
The vehicle stopped and the gunman held the gun on her while the driver slid out from behind the wheel. Then he gestured at her with the weapon. “Get out, slowly. You try to run or scream and I will shoot you and the kid, too.”
She nodded, although she couldn’t help thinking he was bluffing. A gunshot in the middle of the city, even in an area with high crime rates, would still attract attention.
But then the driver pulled open her door and stood there, waiting for her to get out. Praying they wouldn’t find her phone, she awkwardly shifted in the seat, swinging her legs over so she could get out of the car while still holding Brodie.
“This way,” the gunman said as he joined them.
She glanced around looking for someone who might help her, but the couple of kids huddled at the corner of the parking lot didn’t bother to glance in her direction.
Hitching Brodie higher in her arms, she followed the driver into the apartment building. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and grease, causing her stomach to roll with nausea. But then the driver opened another door, revealing a set of wooden stairs leading into a dank, dark basement.
“Go,” the gunman said, prodding her with his gun.
Taking the steep staircase down while holding Brodie wasn’t easy. She used the rail beneath her right elbow as a guide, wondering if the two men were hoping she’d fall and hit her head on the concrete basement floor below.
How she managed to negotiate the stairs all the way down was a mystery. The darkness caused Brodie to whimper. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, giving her eyes a minute to adjust to the lack of light.
“In here,” the man with the gun said.
There must have been a window down there somewhere, as she could tell he was standing near a door. He fiddled with it for a moment, then opened the door and gestured for her to go inside. The moment she stepped over the threshold, he slammed the door shut behind her.
Hearing a jiggling and metallic clink of the door handle, she felt certain he was locking them inside. The faint light of the window vanished, leaving them swallowed in darkness. Shayla stood frozen, afraid to move, uncertain as to what if anything was inside.
“I’m scared. Turn on the light,” Brodie whispered.
“Don’t be afraid. We’re safe for now.” She ran her fingers over the wall near the door, feeling rough drywall. “I’m not sure if there is a light down here, sorry.”
A low moan cut the silence and she froze again, feeling sick as she realized t
hey were not alone.
“Who’s in here?” she demanded, huddling with Brodie against the wall.
“Shay?”
At first she thought she imagined the faint husky voice, but then he spoke again. “Shay? Is that you?”
“Duncan?” She wished desperately for even a sliver of light.
“Yeah.” He groaned again and she heard him moving around. “I, uh, can’t get up.”
The brief flood of relief at not being alone quickly faded. “Why not?”
“They, uh, busted me up some.”
“Oh, Duncan.” With one arm circling Brodie, she used the other to follow the wall until she found Duncan. He was curled up on the floor near the back of the room. She knelt beside him, running her fingers over his face and feeling the puffy skin and the stickiness of blood.
Knowing these men had beaten up her brother in an effort to get him to talk infuriated and scared her.
They were prisoners. And she knew that if any of the men who’d kidnapped them raised a hand to her son, she’d tell them whatever they wanted to know.
Anything.
SIXTEEN
They were gone. Taken from the playground. Gone!
Mike couldn’t concentrate on the case, his thoughts kept going around and around, emphasizing his failure.
Shayla. Their son. Both in the hands of cold-blooded killers.
“Mike!” His brother Matt roughly shook his arm. “Snap out of it, bro. We need to work together to find them.”
“I know.” He lifted tortured eyes to his brothers. “How? What’s our next step?”
There was a long moment of silence as they considered their options.
“I say we go to Lane Walters’s apartment building,” Marc said. “We can ask Miles and Noah to meet us there.”
“We need a search warrant,” Matt pointed out.
Mike couldn’t have cared less about going through formal channels. The woman he loved—yes, loved—and their son were in danger. That trumped a warrant any day of the week.
“Call Maddy,” Marc suggested. “She’ll know which judge to approach to get the warrant.”
