A Field of Red

by Greg Enslen

  “But if you can help out at all, people around here would appreciate it,” Laura said, leaning forward. “People are scared, really scared. A couple of the officers’ wives come into the salon. The case isn’t going well.”

  He thought about what she was saying, then decided on a different tack.

  “I’m surprised,” Frank said quietly. “I figured you’d be happy to hear I was staying out. Didn’t it drive you and your mom crazy, me being out in the world, all the time, in harm’s way? I know Trudy hated it. She told me enough times.”

  Laura sipped at her coffee and nibbled another cookie before answering.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess it’s different for me, now. When I was growing up, you were always gone, out helping other people. Even after we left and moved to Cincinnati, you stayed in Louisiana. Mom said you didn’t get the hint.”

  Frank nodded slowly.

  “But now that I have Jackson, I understand how helpless I would feel if he disappeared,” she said. Laura was looking at the art on the wall again, and he felt his eyes drawn to them as well. “It makes me happy now, to know that you helped those people, people I never even met.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Frank said. “But still, I don’t think I would add anything to the case. Too many bad memories.”

  Like that kid in Atlanta, buried.

  Frank and Ben Stone had worked together for almost a year and had traveled up from Florida to help out on a kidnapping case with connections to a counterfeiting case they had been assigned. Frank did the work, followed up on a weak lead, and broke the case wide open.

  They had found the empty lot—reconstructed from a photo taken by a driver passing a suspicious vehicle. Frank had figured it out. He found the empty lot and dug up the buried cardboard box and opened it.

  Frank would never forget that dusty, abandoned patch of dirt.

  According to the coroner, Frank had only been a few minutes too late.

  “Too much history,” he said, mostly to himself.

  “Well,” Laura said quietly, “if it were me, I’d want your help.”

  He looked down at the carpet and thought about it. Thought about her asking for his help—if it were Jackson, he wouldn’t hesitate. Frank shut out the memory of Atlanta and tried to focus on the good cases, the ones that had turned out well. He had saved people, made a difference. After a moment, Frank nodded and looked at her.

  “I guess…I guess I could think about it.”

  She smiled and put her hand on his. It was the first time she’d touched him.

  “I think you could be more helpful than you think,” his daughter said. “You can put all those skills to work, and if you can lend a hand, all the better. I remember a few of the things Mom told me. Didn’t you work like fifty kidnappings?”

  He nodded.

  “Fifty-two solved. But each case was different,” Frank said. “Some of them ended badly. Catching the kidnappers didn’t always lead to a good ending. Sometimes the kids…they didn’t make it. Or we never found them, and the kidnappers disappeared. Getting the groundwork done quickly was the key to keeping the victims alive.”

  They sat, chatting for a few more minutes, drinking coffee and eating cookies. He told her about some of the cases he had worked, good and bad. Of course, he held back some of the details. But it was nice. Just sitting here with her, talking, without her mother getting involved, or having their whole history dredged up again. It was all in the past, anyway.

  “So, you really think I should do it?” Frank asked, after they had been talking about his past cases for a while. She had asked lots of good questions and not shied away from the ones that ended badly.

  “Definitely,” she said. “They are just scared little girls. Somebody has to help them, right?”

  Frank nodded.

  “OK, I’ll think about it.”

  Laura nodded and handed him a cookie.

  “Good,” she said with a smile.

  14

  George carried the trays downstairs and into the kitchen, setting them on the large island that seemed to take up half the kitchen. Most of it was covered with old containers from takeout Chinese food. Chastity was at the dining room table, reading a fashion magazine.

  “Well, at least they’re eating,” he said, putting the plates into the sink.

  Chastity looked up.

  “I don’t care if they’re eating or not. They can starve. When are we getting paid?”

  Starting in again.

  “I don’t know, Chas. We’ll get the ransom tonight, then leave it at the airport for the boss. He’s got a whole plan. But the other guy’s in charge. Him and the boss will work it out.”

  She shook her head and stood, walking over. He tried to ignore the fact that she was only wearing a pair of panties. She loved going around the house in next to nothing. It could be very distracting.

  “You see what’s going on here, Puddin’?” she said. “They’re gonna get the money, and we’ll be stuck here with the girls. How do you think this is going to go down?”

  George nodded.

  “Please don’t call me that, Chas,” he said. “You know I hate that.”

  She smiled as she approached, leaning into him.

  “I know,” she said.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, backing away from her. “But they’re working on wrapping things up. That’s what the boss said.”

  Chastity stood in front of him and crossed her arms, covering up her ample chest. It made it slightly easier for George to concentrate on what she was saying.

  “You’re an idiot,” she said sharply. “What’s to keep them from taking our money? Or what if they call the police anonymously on us? We’re in jail for life, and they get away. With the money. No, I think we should just bail.”

  “And leave the money?”

  “There ain’t gonna be no money!” she screeched, exasperated. The barn owl was back. “We’re gonna get screwed out of our money anyway, so why not take some of that pot and what money we do have and leave?”

  George thought about it for a minute, looking down at the ground. It was hard to think, staring at Chastity. She was so pretty. But she had a point.

  “We don’t have a car that’ll get us far.” he said.

  She nodded. “Yes we do, Puddin’. The Corolla works fine, and that Mustang is just sitting out there.”

  He shook his head.

  “The boss knows those cars, knows the plates. He’d catch us in a minute.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “If I want to, I can get a car. I can go into any bar in Troy right now and some idiot will let me borrow his car. I know how to get guys to do what I want. Or, better yet, bring him back here and tie him up—then it would take longer before the guy reports it. And he’d take the fall for the girls.”

  “I dunno, Chas. That seems awfully risky,” George said, not even wanting to start that conversation about what she’d need to do, or show, to get a car. He didn’t like to think about what she did when she went into town. She would always come home late, or some random car would drop her off a mile or two up the road. And she always had money and sometimes a little bag of coke or weed. George shook his head. “I’m not ready to go yet, but I’ll call the boss and see what’s going on. I’ll tell him the Mustang is ready, and we’re ready. But what about the girls?”

  Her face went red, and for a second George thought she might punch him. She got exasperated a lot.

  “George! Jesus,” she shouted. “I don’t give a shit about the girls. I’m worried about us.” She stepped closer and putting her hands on his shoulders, pressing her breasts against his crossed arms. He looked down at them. She kept talking, but he didn’t look up. “We gotta get ready to go, if we have to,” she purred. “Get packed, so we can leave in a second. Right?”

  He nodded. He always found it difficult, at times like these, to contradict her.

  15

  Long shadows stretched over the dow
ntown as Chief King and the rest of the CMPD stationed themselves at various locations around the historic downtown shopping district. To the west, a train rumbled through town at exactly 5:58 pm, eight minutes ahead of the time for the ransom drop.

  The money was ready and in a black leather satchel, as requested. Nick Martin was standing next to King on the steps of the Cooper’s Mill Public Library, nervously adjusting the bag on his shoulder. King waited, looking east up Main Street. On the steps around them, and around the entrance to the library, a dozen carved and decorated pumpkins littered the stoop. Other Halloween decorations hung throughout the downtown, decorating every shop window. Eight-foot-tall corn shocks adorned each light pole, a simple but effective project by a downtown booster organization that really gave the downtown a “harvest time” feel.

  “$1,000,000 is a lot of money,” King said, making conversation. Nick Martin was fidgeting, and King needed him calm and collected. Even with cops stationed all over town, and roadblocks to the east and west and south, by the tomato cannery, things could go wrong in a hurry.

  “It’s worth it,” Nick responded.

  Chief King was still trying to gauge whether or not the father was in on it. He looked sufficiently nervous, but King had heard about things like this going down before—not in Cooper’s Mill, of course, but in larger towns. Kidnappings were rare and complicated, and Chief King knew they almost always turned out to involve someone in the family or close to the family.

  Nick Martin was a local celebrity, though, so that made the demand for a huge ransom a little more believable. King knew that everyone in town thought that Martin was wealthy, mostly because of where he lived and what he did for a living. But King had learned over the last week the truth: the Martins weren’t as well off as everyone thought. Much of their “Martin Construction” company money had gone away with the housing and construction downturn in 2008 and 2009. The rest went to keeping the lights on in their offices and the Martin’s palatial home on Hyatt Street, one of the largest in town.

  In fact, some of the money in the black leather satchel hanging from Nick Martin’s shoulder was borrowed. There had been no way the man could gather all the needed money that quickly. Nick had sold off two large investments, including his share in a Dayton condominium project near Dragon’s Stadium. Even then, he’d had to borrow money from the FBI.

  It had been an interesting discussion, helping Nick decide what to sell off. Nick Martin had wanted to keep the projects that might be the most lucrative in the future, but his focus was clearly his daughter and raising the money. He’d also been partial to some of the smaller projects. King and Nick Martin and the other senior officers had been sitting around the big conference room table in the police station, going over the finances. That was yesterday afternoon, after the call from the kidnappers.

  The FBI guy had kept his mouth shut—he evidently didn’t have any experience in the area. Sergeant Graves, one of them at the table, suggested Nick Martin sell off the Holly Toys Lofts project. Nick had a lot of dead money tied up in that, and weeks before, his business partner, Matt Lassiter, had offered to buy him out.

  The building was a former toy factory and sort of a local landmark. When the property had come onto the market, Nick and Matt had bought it, planning to turn the massive brick building into block of luxury condos. It would have been a smart play, as well—there were no apartments or condos that close to the historical downtown, and the units would have been beautiful, fully-appointed homes. And they would have cost a pretty penny. But then the market tanked. The building was still sitting empty, with only one condominium completed as a model unit.

  But Nick evidently had a soft spot for the property. “I think that could be very lucrative,” Nick had said, smiling. “Plus, I used to play on the tracks right there.” After a long discussion, they had finally helped him figure out two deals to close, including selling the Holly Toys building. In a matter of two hours, he’d raised almost $850,000.

  King wished he could pick up the phone and make that kind of money appear from thin air.

  The FBI Liaison, Ted Shale, arranged for the rest, and now they were here on the stone steps of the Library, waiting. The clock on the Monroe Township Building began to chime, ringing loudly, six times.

  “Okay, six minutes. Everyone ready?” King asked into his radio. He had cops stationed on both ends of Main Street in squad cars, along with several more in discrete locations. There were two in plain clothes, Detective Barnes and Deputy Peters, sitting on the wooden benches in front of O’Shaughnessy’s Restaurant. King also had police in from Dayton and Troy to help man the roadblocks downtown. There was even a roadblock uptown near the Taco Bell, blocking access to the highway.

  “Yup, we’re good,” the voice came back. It was Sergeant Burwell, stationed on the east end of Main, near Ricky’s. That was the only way in and out of town to the east, unless you jogged several blocks north or south—and both directions were covered.

  “Yeah, me, too,” answered Sergeant Graves over the radio. He was up at the corner of Fifth and Main, next to the railroad tracks.

  Burwell and Graves were good cops. Along with Detective Barnes, they were his three top guys, and King would feel comfortable with any of them taking over after he was gone. With Burwell blocking access to the east, and Graves making sure no one got over the tracks and uptown, the place was bottled up tight.

  There was no way these kidnappers were getting away. And even if the real kidnappers sent a go-between to retrieve the money, capturing them would put the investigation on the fast track to recovering the girls.

  King nodded to Nick Martin, who started down the steps and started walking slowly up the sidewalk east, up Main Street.

  Nick passed the alley and the Harvest Moon Cafe, another popular downtown restaurant that featured a rooftop lounge. As Chief King watched, Martin passed the toy store, passing in front of the oversized Lego people in front, and stopped in front of the Italian restaurant on the corner, waiting for the light.

  King scanned the pedestrians and traffic. It was a Tuesday evening, so there were quite a few people out window shopping. King had chosen to not shut down all vehicular traffic in and out of downtown to make the place look busy. He thought it might spook the kidnappers if the place was a ghost town. But now, with several cars cruising up and down Main, he was regretting that decision.

  When the light changed, Nick Martin crossed the street and stopped in front of the Old Hotel, a collection of shops built into an old hotel on the corner of Second and Main. The intersection constituted the center of Cooper’s Mill. Although all the streets downtown were numbered westward from the canal, this was the busiest intersection in town.

  Nick Martin took the black leather bag off his shoulder and set it on the lip of a large, decorative trash can, attached to the sidewalk in front of the Old Hotel. King watched as Nick Martin tipped the zipped black bag over—it fell through the round opening and into the trash can. Martin glanced around and, unsure what to do next, retraced his steps, crossing Second Street and heading back toward the Library and Chief King. After a long minute, Martin walked up and stood next to the Chief.

  “Now what?”

  King nodded at the bag. “We wait.”

  Ten minutes passed with nothing happening. Three small groups of pedestrians walked in front of the trash bin, but no one reached inside. Another group of shoppers admired the Halloween displays in the front windows of A World Apart, a home decorating shop across the street from the toy store.

  Chief King stood next to Nick Martin, as they watched impatiently up the street, but nothing was happening. A breeze stirred the fallen leaves and blew them down the street, skittering against the sidewalk and gutter.

  16

  On the benches in front of O’Shaughnessy’s, directly across the street from the trash bin, the two plainclothes cops watched while carrying on a fake conversation.

  “This is bullshit,” Detective Barnes said under his breat
h. “They should have been here by now, if they were coming.”

  Deputy Peters kept his eyes on the trash can across the street. Even though he was the youngest man on the CMPD, he knew as well as anyone that these next few minutes could be the most important moments of the investigation. “Yup. Though I’m not sure how cursing is going to help.”

  Barnes looked him. “What?”

  “Cursing,” Deputy Peters said. “You know it’s just a crutch, right? My mom used to say that smart people can figure out other words to say.”

  Barnes shook his head and looked back at the drop location. “Well, I’m your superior, and I sure as shit don’t agree,” he said, smiling.

  A young blonde woman in a short skirt exited the doors from O’Shaughnessy’s, her long hair blowing in the breeze. She turned and started up the sidewalk in front of the two policemen, and Peters noticed her out of the corner of his eyes. She was under dressed, to say the least, for the crisp weather. She was wearing a very short skirt, long brown boots, and one of those tight push-up tops that made her breasts look like dogs sitting up for a treat.

  As she passed in front of the men, they both turned to look at her. She smiled at them and then stumbled awkwardly, falling to the sidewalk and cursing loudly. Her purse fell to the ground, and the contents scattered on the sidewalk—wallet, keys, money, even a deck of playing cards. Dollar bills fluttered in the air and blew away.

  “Oh, come on!” she yelled, pulling at her top.

  Both of the police officers stood to help her. Deputy Peters couldn’t help but notice that her small skirt had ripped in the fall. A hint of purple panties showed from underneath.

  “Are you okay?” Detective Barnes asked, leaning over her. He was hurriedly helping the young woman. Peters thought he was trying to get the woman out of an active police scene.

  She smiled up at him, a hand over her breasts. “I think I’m okay, but I popped out of my top!”