by Dinah McCall
“Hey, Moby, come here a minute, will you?” Carl called.
“Yes, okay,” Jonah said. “Be right there.”
“Why did he call you Moby?” Macie asked.
Jonah grinned. “It’s a little complicated, but you’d have to know Carl. Moby is short for Moby Dick. The whale, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Now what’s my name?”
“Jonah, but—”
He started to grin. “You’re doing good. In the Bible, remember the story of Jonah?”
“Yes, he was swallowed by a…Oh, good grief, a whale. But that doesn’t make a bit of sense,” Macie said.
“Well, I said you have to know Carl.”
Macie smiled.
“You should do that more often,” Jonah said.
“What?” she asked.
“Smile. It looks real good on you, lady.”
“I haven’t had a lot of reasons to smile lately,” Macie said.
“Hey, Jonah!”
Carl was yelling now.
“Yeah, coming,” Jonah said. “Are you all right now?”
“I’m fine. I’m going to have some toast and coffee, then call the hospital. I need to go check on Daddy today.”
“Don’t leave this house without me,” Jonah warned.
Macie frowned. “Are you thinking there’s a possibility of another incident like the one we had yesterday?”
“There’s no way of knowing, but we don’t want to take chances, okay?”
“Okay.”
“There is another option.”
“Like what?” Macie asked.
“We could put you under protective custody until all this is over.”
Macie looked around at all the law enforcement people.
“What do you call this?”
“I’m talking about a safe house, Macie. A place where only a very few people know where you are. You would be under guard at all times until this is over.”
“No.”
“Maybe you should just think about—”
“No.”
She turned angrily and strode out of the room. Jonah cursed beneath his breath as he moved to the conference table where Carl and Ruger were waiting.
“What took you so long?” Carl teased.
“Just shut up,” Jonah muttered, then turned to Ruger. “What do we know about the gardener?”
Carl looked up. “What gardener? I needed you to run down this list—see if you recognize any locations.”
Ruger wanted to tell Jonah to back off, that they were doing their job just fine, but the truth wasn’t that simple. They weren’t doing just fine. Unless they got a break in the case, they had nowhere else to go.
“We know he’s not really Felipe Sosa, and we know he’s living in Sosa’s house. He comes to work. He goes home. The only time he uses the phone is to order food. We could pick him up, but all that would do is alert Calderone’s men that we’re on to him.”
“Son of a bitch,” Jonah said.
“Hey!” Carl said, abandoning the list of Calderone’s holdings.
Both men looked at him.
“I repeat—what gardener?”
Jonah shoved his hands into his pockets. “One of Calderone’s men. He’s outside right now, pruning the goddamned rosebushes. Probably laughing behind our backs and thinking he’s fooled us good. I’d lay odds he had a hand in getting the killers through security to the main house, but we can’t prove it. And Ruger’s right. If we pick him up, there’s no telling what might happen.” Then he looked at Ruger. “You’re still keeping a tail on him?”
“Twenty-four/seven.”
“And you’ll let me know if—”
Ruger stifled an urge to sigh. “Yes.”
There was way too much condescension in Ruger’s voice. It ticked Jonah off, and he didn’t bother trying to hide it.
“You get pissed off all you want at me, but I have a hell of a lot more at stake than you do. I would very much like to have my first visit with my son not be at a goddamned funeral home. So let’s drop the antagonism and get real. When I ask you a question, all I want is an honest answer. If you need me, call. I intend to be out today. Macie wants to visit her father.”
He nodded at Carl. “See you later,” he said, and headed for the door.
“Take Sugarman and Carter,” Ruger said.
Jonah didn’t bother to answer. He just kept walking. His heart was aching, and he felt as if he was losing his mind. Standing back and letting others be in control of his world was almost impossible for him to maintain. He kept thinking of Evan, wishing he’d known him before, wanting him to believe he wasn’t alone.
Stay strong, kid…stay strong. I swear to God, I will find you.
Back in the command center, Carl’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he watched his friend’s angry exit.
“You pissed him off,” Carl said.
Ruger shrugged. “He’s a loose cannon. I don’t feel comfortable trusting him with all the information. After all, it’s not as if he’s a normal father whose child has been kidnapped. The man has skills that are illegal in every country in the world, for God’s sake. If he goes off half-cocked, he could ruin the entire rescue attempt and get his son killed.”
“Do you know where the boy is? Are you planning a rescue attempt?”
Ruger’s face flushed. “No, but—”
“Then I don’t think there’s any danger of anything being ruined, now is there?”
Ruger sighed. “You guys stick up for your own, don’t you?”
Carl smiled and shrugged. “Are you feds any different?”
Ruger hesitated, then chuckled. “No, I don’t guess we are.”
“Then cut the man a little slack.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ruger said, then reached across the table for his half-empty coffee cup and downed what was left. “Damn…I hate flavored coffee,” he said, shuddering slightly.
Now that he’d mellowed Ruger out, Carl moved his motives for being there up a notch.
“So what’s with this Samuel Vega guy? Is he still in custody?”
“They’re going to spring him today,” Ruger said. “Don’t have enough to hold him.”
“Hmm…mind if I have a go at him before he hits the streets?” Carl asked.
“He’s not talking,” Ruger said.
Carl grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. I have a real winning way about me. How about it?”
Ruger gave the blond charmer a cool, studied stare, then finally chuckled.
“What the hell. Go for it. Just remember, if he talks, you have to share.”
“It’s a deal,” Carl said, and left before Ruger could change his mind.
A half hour later he was at the L.A. County jail, waiting to talk to Vega. When the man appeared, he was handcuffed and belligerent.
“Who the fuckin’ hell are you?” Vega said.
Carl smiled. “I’m Carl French, Mr. Vega. Why don’t you have a seat? I thought we’d have a little chat. Would you like a cigarette? Maybe a soda or some coffee?”
The man’s attitude began to shift as Carl continued to offer small perks. Finally he shrugged.
“A coffee. Colombian, of course, and I would like a cigar.”
Carl stifled a smirk. “Coming up,” he said, then eyed the guard. “Sir, if you would be so kind as to pass on Mr. Vega’s requests, we would both be very grateful.”
The guard had already been coached to adhere to the agent’s wishes, so he stepped outside the room long enough to request the desired items.
Carl took a seat across the table from the man and then leaned forward, well aware that moving into the man’s personal space made him seem more accessible.
“So, while we’re waiting, I’d like to talk about that little incident yesterday. What was that all about, anyway?”
Vega’s expression changed, taking on a much-injured air.
“You tell me,” he said. “I am driving down a street, minding my own business, when your cops pull
me over and arrest me. They accuse me of stalking. They accuse me of attempted this and possible that. But it’s all a lie.”
Carl frowned sympathetically. “Probably a case of mistaken identity. Maybe your car looked like another they were searching for. Maybe you looked like another man who’s wanted for some felony.”
Vega thumped his doubled-up fists on the table. The handcuffs rattled noisily, alerting the guard, who took a couple of steps forward.
Carl held up his hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said. “Mr. Vega is understandably upset.” He turned back to the prisoner. “So I’m assuming your lawyer is working on your release?”
“Damn right,” Vega said. “Say…you never did say who you are.”
“Sure I did. My name is Carl French.”
Vega frowned. “No, man…I mean, who the fuck are you?”
“Oh, that,” Carl said, and took out his ID just as the door opened and Vega’s coffee and cigar were delivered.
“Son of a bitch,” Vega said, and scooted backward in the chair, as if he’d suddenly gotten too close to a fire. “What’s going on here?” he shouted, and swept the coffee off the table onto the floor.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Carl said, and waved away the guard, who was about to grab Vega by the collar and haul him out of the room. “Fresh Colombian. Nothing better, and it’s wasted.” Then he leaned forward, and the smile slid off his face. “Just like you’re going to be when we turn you loose.”
Vega’s features were contorted with rage. “I want my lawyer. You have no right to question me like—”
Carl took a small tape recorder out of his pocket, turned it on and set it on the table between them.
“You need to get your facts straight, Samuel Vega. After I leave, you are going to be released without any further contact with your lawyer, while your buddy stays locked up nice and tight.”
Vega’s swarthy complexion went from red to pale. He jumped out of the chair.
“You can’t do that to me!”
“Do what?” Carl said. “We’re just turning you loose, as you requested.”
Vega started to shake. “You son of a bitch! You know what will happen to me.”
Carl’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry. I’m not following your complaint. You have assured us that you are completely innocent of trying to kill Mercedes Blaine. The fact that you had her picture in your car and were seen following her from several different locations was pure coincidence, right? And since you’re innocent, nothing will happen when we turn you loose.”
Vega cursed, sputtered, then sat down with a thump. Sweat was running out of his hair and down the sides of his face, and he kept swallowing over and over, as if he were trying to choke down something caught in his throat.
“Is there something you want to say?” Carl asked, then stood up and leaned forward.
Instinctively Vega leaned back. All the amiability in Carl French’s behavior was gone.
“Like what?” Vega muttered.
“What were you supposed to do to Miss Blaine?”
Vega shrugged. “I wasn’t going to do anything to her.”
Carl straightened up and started toward the door.
“Release him,” he told the guard.
Vega jumped up. “No. Wait.”
Carl kept walking.
Vega followed. “Wait! Wait! I will tell what I know.”
Carl stopped. “That’s better.”
“But you have to protect me,” Vega said.
“No, I don’t,” Carl said. “Sit down.”
Vega sat.
“Who sent you after the Blaine woman?”
“I got a call. I do as I’m told,” Vega said.
Carl frowned slightly. “That’s not what I’m asking, Mr. Vega. I’ll start over, and I’d better get the right answer or I’m out of here…and so are you.”
The last of Vega’s attitude crumbled.
“One more time. Who do you work for?” Carl asked.
Vega looked down at the floor. “The padrone,” he mumbled.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” Carl said, and scooted the tape recorder closer to Vega. “Could you speak a little louder.”
“The padrone. I work for the padrone.”
“Just for the record…how about a name?”
“Calderone,” Vega said, then looked up. “Miguel Calderone.”
“And he told you to do what to Miss Blaine?”
“Get rid of her.”
“What about the boy?”
Vega frowned. “What boy? There was no boy with her.”
Carl reached across the table, and this time he grabbed a fistful of Vega’s shirt and yanked the man to his feet.
“Don’t fuck with me, you sorry little bastard. Tell me where Calderone is holding Evan Blaine or the deal is off.”
Vega started to shake. “I swear…I don’t know anything about that.”
“You lie. Everyone knows about it. It’s been on the news for days.”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Vega said. “I meant that I don’t know where he is. I had nothing to do with that. I swear.”
Carl could tell the man was telling the truth, but he hid his disappointment. He motioned to the guard.
“I’m done with him. Take him back.”
Vega eyed Carl nervously as he stood.
“You are not going to give me up? You promised me, man. Remember that.”
Carl just stared. “I promised you nothing. You’re the one who did all the talking.”
He stood without moving as Vega was led from the room, cursing him with every step. He turned off the tape recorder and dropped it in his pocket. He would give it to Ruger later. Right now he was going to swing by Cedars-Sinai Hospital and see if Jonah and Macie were still there. He would not hide any evidence from Ruger, but his first allegiance was to Jonah, and he was going to tell him everything he’d learned.
The Snowman was coming out of a coffee shop when his cell phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, glanced at the caller ID and then frowned.
“Hello,” he said shortly.
“You have not called in.”
The accusation in the man’s voice made the Snowman’s frown deepen. “I’ve been busy,” he said shortly. “Tell the padrone that I’ve found Jonah Slade. Ask him what he wants me to do next.”
“This is good news,” the man said.
“I always deliver,” the Snowman said. “And just for the record, I don’t like being pressured, understand?”
“Just for the record, you can be replaced,” the man countered.
For a second, the Snowman froze. He knew all too well what Calderone and his men were capable of. Then he snorted lightly, taking care that it was heard on the other end of the line.
“Maybe,” he said. “But not easily. I await further orders.”
He was the first to disconnect. It gave him a sense of control, which was good, because right now, his life was seriously fucked.
The men guarding Evan were worried. They couldn’t make the boy eat, and he was getting weaker by the hour. The padrone had told them to keep the boy healthy and in one piece until his arrival, but they didn’t know how to do that. Not even the padrone’s woman had been successful, and her powers of persuasion were well-known within the organization. She was the perfect partner for a man of Calderone’s personality—a female counterpoint of selfishness and evil. But not even she knew how to keep the boy alive, and she had left in a huff, not wanting to catch the backlash should the boy succumb before Calderone could mete out his revenge.
Now the guards were left with a quandary. How to keep someone alive who believed that his days were already numbered? As he’d done twice a day since they’d arrived in this place, Evan’s guard prepared a tray for the boy and carried it to his room. As always, the boy was curled up on the bed with his back to the door, as if offering up his vulnerability with a quiet defiance. The guard set the tray down on the floor, then rattled th
e bed frame.
“You eat now,” he said. “It is good.”
Evan didn’t move.
The guard threw up his hands in defeat, and shut and locked the door.
On one level, Evan had heard the guard’s entrance, as well as his exit, but mentally he’d moved into a place where no one could touch him. He’d thought more than once that he was starting to hallucinate, but at other times he convinced himself they were only dreams. Now, though, there was one recurring image that kept staying in his mind.
While he’d never seen his father’s face or heard his voice, somehow he knew the voice he kept hearing was that of his dad. And all he kept saying was the same phrase, over and over and over.
Stay strong. Stay strong.
He hadn’t decided whether he believed it or not, but he wanted to. God, how he wanted to. With the words echoing in his mind, he rolled over, then sat on the edge of the mattress. His head was swimming, so he leaned forward, lowering his head between his knees until the vertigo stopped. Once he thought he could stand, he got to his feet, staggered to the tray and then carried it back to the bed.
With painful and shaking hands, he finally popped the top of a snack-size can of peaches. The simple aroma seemed more wonderful than anything he’d ever had in his life. He lifted the can to his mouth and drank off the juice, then, because his hands were too sore to hold the spoon, he tilted the can again and proceeded to eat the contents in three bites.
Almost immediately, his stomach protested, growling in protest at the appearance of food after such a long drought. He set the empty can back on the tray and eyed the small can of Vienna sausages, then thought better of it. No sense making himself sick. He had enough to deal with without adding vomiting or diarrhea.
He set the tray on the bed, then lay down in front of it, taking some comfort in the fact that he’d pulled himself out of the depression and was taking a positive step toward saving himself. Now all he had to do was trust the voice he kept hearing and pray that it wasn’t a figment of his imagination.
11
Macie sat in the back seat, staring blankly at the back of Federal Agent Sugarman’s head as he leaned over to say something to Carter, who was, as usual, driving the car. She wouldn’t let herself think past the moment and the comfort of leaning against Jonah’s shoulder as the car took a sharp right turn. She was thankful her father was improving, but she dreaded another confrontation with him.
