Their target had expanded his lead by a block.
“You better speed up,” Brack said.
“Yessir.”
He switched on the radio and found a classic rock station, catching the intro to the Outfield’s “Your Love.”
She said, “We’re still living in the eighties, I see.”
“When I find something I like, I tend to stick with it.”
No snarky retort was forthcoming.
Vito turned down a street and Brack knew where he was heading, because he’d been there earlier. “He’s going to Gecko Row.”
His phone vibrated. He noticed the call came from an Atlanta area code. He answered it.
A female voice asked, “Is this Brack Pelton?”
“Who’s asking?” Brack said, suspicious because the last time he got a call like this his Porsche blew up.
“This is Shana, from Gecko Row. We spoke earlier.”
“Yes?” he said, not knowing what else to say.
“Those two girls, the ones you were looking for? They’re here.”
“I’m headed your way,” he said, even though this could be a trap.
“Um,” she said, “one thing though.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“They aren’t alone.”
“No problem.”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “They’re with some really connected guys with bodyguards.”
“This just gets better and better,” he said. “Thanks for the information.”
“You owe me,” she said with a coy tone in her voice.
“Maybe this will buy me some credit,” he said. “Vito is about five minutes from walking in the door there in case you and your co-workers aren’t exactly, you know, working.”
“That’s a start.” She ended the call.
Darcy said, “Don’t tell me you, too, have sources in this town.”
He took the moment to bask in her envy. “Of course I do.”
“Well,” she said, “what did your source tell you?”
“Two eighteen-year-old Asian girls are at Vito’s Gecko Row place together with some connected men and their bodyguards. Of course, this could be a trap.”
She tapped her steering wheel. “If it isn’t, I’m guessing those girls have fake ID saying they are old enough to be there.”
“What are you thinking?” Brack hoped she wanted to confront the situation.
“If we go in there, Vito will have you taken out.”
She was right, of course. If she hadn’t been here with him, he would have stormed the fort. Instead, he made a call and they took a detour.
Around midnight at Three Crosses Church, they sat opposite Brother Thomas and Reverend Cleophus at a folding table in a makeshift office.
Darcy and Brack explained what they’d learned about the two missing daughters.
Reverend Cleophus said, “This situation has gotten out of hand.”
“When Brother Brack is involved,” Brother Thomas said, “things always get out of hand, mm-hmm.”
Darcy added, “And I get great ratings.”
“And I end up having to remind everyone of the reason we’re all doing what we’re doing here,” Brack said. “Like getting Regan. And Mindy and Kai.”
“Just a little comic relief, Brother Brack, mm-hmm.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not laughing.”
Early the next morning, Mutt and Brack sat across from Detective Nichols in a booth at the Majestic Diner.
Brack asked, “So why haven’t you arrested Vito yet?”
The man with the badge chewed his hash browns, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. He took a swig of coffee to wash it down. “You ask like you already know why.”
“Diplomatic immunity,” Mutt said.
“The man runs the largest illegal sex-trade operation in the city,” Brack said, “and all you guys do is stand around with your guns in your holsters and let him do it.”
“It’s not that simple,” he said, pushing his plate away.
Ignoring the BLT he’d ordered, Brack said, “Yes, it is that simple.”
Nichols said, “Why are you here busting my chops if you’ve got all this figured out?”
“Because the men who work for Vito don’t have diplomatic immunity,” Brack said.
“Yeah,” Mutt said, “and you ain’t roustin’ them neither.”
The detective leaned forward to stare at Brack. “Look, our hands are tied.”
“You’re sitting on a public relations time bomb and you’re telling me your hands are tied?”
“Yes.”
Mutt blew out a long breath. “Man, if I didn’t know any better, Opie, I’d think this cracker here was trying to get us to do his job for him.”
“Or someone higher up is being paid off,” Brack said.
“Like I said, my hands are tied.”
Thinking as he spoke, Brack said, “But ours aren’t.”
Nichols stood and took out his wallet. “You guys are smarter than you look.”
“Yeah,” Brack said, “well, breakfast is on us. What do you think about that?”
Nichols smiled. “Suckers.”
Brack watched him walk away. “You believe that guy?”
“Opie,” Mutt said, “we just got the green light to blow up this town.”
“My Porsche hasn’t even been dead a week and you’re already cracking bomb jokes?”
“Sorry,” Mutt said. “I didn’t realize you two was so close.”
“We didn’t have enough time to get fully acquainted.” A lot like the Mustang Brack owned two years before. In a high-speed chase with some bad guys, it had been squashed between a speeding SUV and a beer delivery truck.
“You gonna eat your food or what?”
Brack looked down at his plate. “Yes.”
“Good, ’cause we’re gonna need all the energy we can get.”
Taking a bite of his sandwich, Brack chewed absentmindedly while thinking that Vito didn’t have any idea who he’d picked a fight with. Diplomatic immunity worked only as far as any official channel went. Its antonym could be named in a thesaurus as “Mutt and Brack,” they were so unofficial. Brack hoped Mutt knew exactly what was at risk. As for himself, he was unattached. All he stood to lose other than his life was some money in the bank and a couple of restaurants already going to Paige if anything happened to him. But Mutt had a daughter. The more Brack thought about that, the more he had to make sure his friend didn’t do anything as stupid as he himself could be.
Before Mutt left to escort Cassie to her restaurant for the Wednesday night crowd, he handed Brack one of his own thirty-eights, a loaner until the 1911 Colt that blew up with the Porsche could be replaced. After a session with Tara in the gym, Brack stood across from the Westin Peachtree Plaza, the setting sun still hot in the clear sky, watching the hotel entrance. Two lovely young ladies, Mindy and Kai, strolled out of the hotel, arm in arm with a much older gentleman wearing an expensive well-tailored suit. Accompanying them was clearly the man’s bodyguard—all muscle and sunglasses. Each man bore the dark complexion of a Middle-Easterner. Brack guessed the businessman’s expense report might show a few additional entertainment charges or consulting fees. If Vito’s organization was as crafty as it needed to be to operate so covertly, it included pseudonymous businesses that wouldn’t raise any red flags.
He tracked the foursome to a long wheelbase Cadillac Escalade. A second burly man wearing a black suit and sunglasses held the back door for the partiers. After the trio was seated, the first bodyguard got in the front passenger seat.
In the small notebook Brack carried for just such occasions, he recorded the plate number. It would probably come back as a rental, but with the right palms greased they’d have the name of whoever signed the contract for
it.
How Brack came up with the intel on the Arab and his entourage was another story. Shana from Gecko Row had called again. She’d noticed the businessman writing a note on a piece of Hotel Westin’s stationery he had in his pocket. With that and the name on his credit card—also nicely provided by Shana for a promise from him of some sort of repayment—Brack was able to have Darcy track him down. Her sources tagged the man as a big spender and philanderer. She got his itinerary, and Brack volunteered to sit on him. Because this could also be a trap, Brack didn’t want anyone else he cared for shot on his watch.
He flagged a taxi and said something he’d wanted to say for a long time. “Follow that car.”
The driver of the well-used livery Camry did as he was asked and kept the Escalade in sight. Brack wanted to know where the girls would be dropped off. After an hour’s drive through traffic around the city, it seemed as if the businessman would never be done with them.
Brack should have anticipated that things were just getting started. Apparently the john had rented the girls beyond Tuesday evening. Their first stop was what a quick internet search on Brack’s iPhone said was a five-star bistro. From a metered spot across the street, Brack and the cab driver watched the women slip back into their dresses as they exited the SUV. Too surprised by the audacity of this trio to speak about what they watched, Brack felt very far away from his South Carolina lowcountry home with its relaxing beaches and low-key lifestyle.
His cab driver, a Jamaican-accented man with dreadlocks, said, “Your’s de best fare I got all week, mon.”
“I’m glad,” Brack said, “because I’m going to need your services for a few more hours.”
“If it’s gonna be like dis, you got it.”
Brack called Darcy and asked if she could use her pull to have the Escalade’s plate number run.
“Where are you now?” she asked.
He told her where and what he’d just witnessed.
“I’m sure you really hate that,” she said. “Call me again when they leave.”
They ended the call.
The driver, whose identification card showed his name was Darius Jenkins, asked if Brack minded his smoking.
That wouldn’t allay Brack’s jones for a cigar, but it might help him enjoy a false fix.
“Your ride.”
Darius reached for a pack of Camel Blues pinned to the roof by the sun visor and offered one to Brack.
“No thanks.”
“You musta quit, eh, mon?”
“Why do you say that?”
He lit a cigarette with a Bic lighter and exhaled smoke out his open window. “The way you lookin’ at ’em. You want one, ain’t no one gonna judge you here.”
Brack wondered if Darius was referring to the cigarettes, to their intermittent voyeurism, or to his own likely other vices.
He stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. “I did quit.” He knew he was talking about more than smoking.
An hour later, the threesome exited the restaurant. Darius started his cab and followed. While he was no Mutt when it came to companionship, this guy was all right.
The next stop was another bar Darius said was popular in the city. He and Brack watched the three go inside. Brack thought about his next move and decided some closer observation was in order. If Mutt had been here, he might have tried to talk Brack out of it, but he wasn’t.
Brack paid the fare, gave Darius a fifty-dollar tip, and asked him to wait another fifteen minutes. The driver said this was the most excitement he’d had all year and readily agreed to hang tight. Brack got out of the cab and entered the establishment. A room that was more deep than wide welcomed its patrons with a long marble bar to the right and tables to the left, set off by a waist-high divider.
A male bartender wearing a black button-down shirt greeted Brack with a smile as he laid a napkin in front of him. “What can I get you?”
“A sweet tea, two lemon wedges,” Brack said.
The barkeep nodded and got the drink.
Turning his back to the bar, Brack took in the room and all the patrons. He spotted Mindy and Kai first, then the gleaming bald head of his target. They sat at a corner table in the back. What Brack didn’t figure on were three more goons sitting at the table with them. Actually, his thinking of them as goons was a kindness. Short dark hair chemically spiked upward, big shoulders stretching silk shirts, tattoos peeking out below short sleeves. Experience told Brack they were hired muscle, ex-military by the look of them.
Why did this guy need extra protection in addition to the two he already had driving his ménage à trois-athon?
Squeezing both lemon wedges into his tea, Brack contemplated his next move and called Darcy.
“Currently the target and his two companions are having drinks with three questionable characters.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she said. “Can you get a picture of them?”
“I’ll try, but I’m flying solo and selfies are so last week.”
She acknowledged his attempt at humor by ending the call.
A thought occurred to him and he signaled the bartender.
He came right over. “What can I get you?”
“Is the owner here?”
“Some corporation owns us. I can get my manager if you want.”
“No thanks.”
Just then, Mindy and Kai excused themselves, got up from the table, and headed to the rear of the establishment, undoubtedly to use the restrooms. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Brack tracked them behind the divider that separated the dining area from the bar, which gave him cover most of the way. Lucky for him the restrooms required a ninety-degree turn around a corner that put them out of view of the eating area.
He caught up with them around the corner. “Mindy? Kai?”
The girls froze in their tracks and said nothing.
“My name’s Brack,” he said, getting down to business. “Your mothers asked me to find you.”
They turned to face him but still didn’t speak.
“You both are eighteen, so you can make your own decisions. What I want to do is get in touch with Regan. Do you know her?”
At that moment they screamed.
In a hundredth of a second, Brack’s mind calculated the time before the three armed hoods would rush around the corner and put more holes in him than a donut shop. Instantly he pushed past the girls and crashed through an “Emergency Only” exit. The alarm sounded, but he kept running across the back lot. He heard the door bang shut, then slam open again. He rounded a dumpster in time for the bullets to merely ricochet off its steel side. Around another corner and he found himself back on the sidewalk of the main drag and immediately ducked into the vestibule of a clothing store. The goons ran right past him. Good thing he paid Darius to wait. He flagged him over, jumped in, and told him to get them out of there real fast.
Chapter Eighteen
Wednesday afternoon
Mutt called and asked to meet Brack at Piedmont Park. Brack could tell that Trish did not like giving up his dog even for a little while, especially since she’d initially decided to stay in town to spend a mini vacation with Shelby. But, he wanted to spend some time with him while he could.
However, Brack’s easy access to his own dog might change Trish’s mind about vacationing in Atlanta. This move was like skating on thin ice.
He clipped a leash on Shelby, who didn’t seem to mind. Shelby looked happy simply being outside. Bringing him on this escapade wasn’t the smartest thing Brack had ever done, though he’d done so for a selfish reason—he needed the companionship. Last fall, he’d asked Trish to watch Shelby only to take him from her in a bad case of misjudgment that almost got him and his dog killed. But leaving him in Charleston for this didn’t seem like the right thing to do. It didn’t help that Brack then had to ask Trish again to care for him, having t
o come all the way to Atlanta. Good thing she minded doing that about as much as Brack minded smoking a good cigar. At least he used to enjoy them.
Piedmont Park, established in 1895, consisted of a hundred and eighty-nine acres a mile from the heart of the city. Brack liked that some of the water fountains accommodated canines. Also, as he discovered, it contained two fenced-in dog parks. He and Shelby played fetch while they waited for Mutt and Taliah to show up. Though it wasn’t the same as the semi-private stretch of beach on Sullivan’s Island they were used to, Shelby adapted quickly. He placed the tennis ball in Brack’s hand for each fetch and took off running again at each throw. Brack cocked his arm back and let ’er fly. It always amazed him to watch Shelby spot the fluorescent green ball in the air, estimate its landing, and run it down.
From behind him, Brack heard Mutt say, “You call that a throw?”
Brack turned. “I never said I was good at this.” To Mutt’s daughter, he said, “It’s nice to see you again, Taliah.”
Her chin-length hair was held back from her face with bar barrettes, and she wore a pink polo shirt and khaki shorts. With a big smile she gave Brack a hug. “It’s nice to see you again too.”
Shelby ran up and got between them. When he succeeded in separating Taliah from Brack, he dropped the ball at her feet and gave her a friendly bark.
“Taliah,” Brack said, “can you throw the ball for Shelby?”
She knelt and kissed Shelby on the head. “Of course I can.”
What could Brack say? Shelby was the four-legged version of a Prada purse, or whatever was popular with young females these days.
Mutt and Brack walked over to a fountain. Brack stooped to take a drink.
“Taliah did some digging around.”
“Oh yeah?” Brack wiped his mouth.
Mutt inhaled a major lungful from his vaporizer and exhaled. “She so smart.”
“I already knew that.”
“Sometimes she too smart for her own good. She just wanna help, but I made her promise me she wouldn’t go any further.”
Brack raised himself up to his six-foot height. “I agree with that. So what did she find out?”
Big City Heat Page 12
