Last Call

by James Grippando

  “Nice guy.”

  Andie said, "But I didn't learn anything about him that couldn't wait till morning."

  Jack took her meaning and realized that he owed her a pretty full explanation of what he was doing here at almost midnight. "Can you take off your FBI hat for one minute?"

  "Only if what you want to tell me isn't illegal."

  "Choosing not to report a kidnapping is not against the law," Jack said. And then he told her about Uncle Cy.

  She listened without interrupting, and Jack could see that she was trying to show no emotion, though it was hard not to show feelings for Uncle Cy. She remained silent and pensive for at least a minute after he finished. Finally she said, "What would you like me to do?"

  "You're trained in kidnappings. I need you to walk me through this. And I need someone to help me keep Theo from getting himself killed."

  "You're putting me in a tough spot. You want the FBI, but you don't want the FBI."

  "I want the expertise of the FBI. I don't want all the baggage."

  "Then you need to hire a retired agent."

  "And if I start looking right now, how long after Uncle Cy's dead do you think I'll find the right one?"

  She looked away, obviously uncomfortable with the way he'd put it. Jack had struck a nerve.

  Andie said, "I'll talk it out with you, okay?"

  "Okay," he said with a thin but appreciative smile.

  "What do you know so far?"

  "Theo's on a mission to find the man who raped his mother. He's convinced it's the same guy Isaac Reems blackmailed to help him escape from jail, it's the same guy who tried to kill Theo after Reems escaped, and it's now the same guy who kidnapped his uncle. He loaded up a pistol and gave Reddens name to Trina before going out tonight. She was supposed to give it to me if something bad happened."

  "Do you think Redden was the rapist in that frat film?"

  "I think he was more than that” Jack said, as he took a computer-printed copy of a newspaper article from his pocket and laid it on the table. "I went online into the Tribune archives before I called you. This is from 1986, about a month before Theo's mother was killed. Fernando Redden was on the front page of the business section. He won the chamber of commerce award for Miami businessman of the year."

  Andie gave the article a quick review. "Could Theo's mother have possibly known about this? She wasn't exactly the type to read the business section of the newspaper."

  "I'm sure there was TV coverage, too. She could have seen that."

  "Are you suggesting that she saw what an upstanding citizen Redden had become and tried to blackmail him about the rape?"

  "That's one possibility. But I'm betting that after thirteen years, she saw the face of her attacker on television, she hated the cards life had dealt her, and she simply decided to do something about it."

  "She decided to report the assault to the police?"

  "Or at least go public with it," said Jack. "And a guy like Fernando Redden wasn't about to stand for that."

  Andie retreated into thought.

  Jack gave her a minute. "So, what's your take?"

  "I think you may be right," she said, her expression turning very serious. "And I'm afraid Theo is walking straight into a whole mess of trouble."

  Chapter 46

  Uncle Cy didn't know where they were headed. He didn't know what was going to happen to him. He only knew that he had to pee, which meant that it had to be around midnight. Every night, his aging bladder sent the same signal at the same time. He could have set his watch by it, except that he didn't have a watch. Didn't have a wallet or cell phone either. Not anymore. Cy had surrendered all those things at gunpoint before climbing into the trunk of Jack's car.

  The ride was far from comfortable. It was hot, pitch dark, and he was having a tough time breathing. Height ran in the Knight gene pool, but flexibility didn't, which made for a tight fit. The spare tire butted up against his back. Jack's golf bag stole a good chunk of his legroom. His head was propped against the wheel well, and the whine of rubber tires on asphalt was almost loud enough to drown out his thoughts. Almost. Danger pushed the mind in strange directions, and it occurred to him that it had been a while since he'd stared down the barrel of a gun. The first time was a holdup, when he was just nineteen. The last time was during the Overtown riots in 1982. There was one other brush with a Saturday-night special, but he'd been too drunk to take it seriously. Never before, however, had anyone put a gun with a silencer to his head. That changed the equation.

  Silencers were for real killers, not amateurs.

  Cy felt the car slow and make a hard right turn. The hum of the highway gave way to the crunch and pop of a gravel road. A pothole rattled his bones. Finally, the car came to a stop, the engine shut off, and there was silence.

  Cy heard the drivers door open and shut. The jangle of car keys and shuffling of footsteps told him that someone was approaching. Cy braced himself, expecting to hear the key in the trunks lock. Instead, he heard a man s voice. He couldn't make out what was being said, but it was growing louder as the man came closer. It didn't sound like the street dialect of the driver, a black guy who'd ordered him to shut his face and get in the trunk. This voice belonged to someone else. Cy was still waiting for the trunk to pop open when, instead, the entire rear end of the car seemed to sink a good six inches. Someone was sitting on the bumper.

  "Change of plans," the driver said. He probably thought Cy couldn't overhear their conversation, or maybe he just didn't care. Either way, every word was audible.

  "What happened?" the other man said.

  "Had Knight all to myself at his new bar. Then, in walked his lawyer and his uncle before I could do the hit."

  "Did anyone know you were there?"

  Cy wasn't sure, but the other guy sounded white.

  "Well, yeah," said the black guy "I mean, I shot his cell off the bar before his uncle showed up."

  The anger in the white man's voice was discernible even through the trunk lid. "So you were playing with him. Is that what you're telling me?"

  "A little, yeah. Just enough to keep it interesting."

  "Damn it! We agreed to a hit, clean and quick. Just like Reems."

  The words hit Cy like an epiphany. Theo had been right: he and Isaac Reems had been in the same man's sights.

  The driver said, "Then you should have hired the same guy who hit Reems."

  "Then you shouldn't have offered to do it for free."

  "Cool down, all right?" said the driver.

  "No, I can't cool down. You screwed up the Knight hit twice. At least the first time it had the markings of a random killing, just another drive-by gang shooting gone bad. But this time you definitely went and tipped off Knight to the fact that there's a contract on his head. If he's smart, he's in hiding. It could take weeks, maybe months, for us to get another shot at him."

  "Got that problem solved, my man."

  "Is that so?"

  The driver slapped the trunk lid, and to Cy it sounded as if he were trapped inside a bass drum. "Got his uncle right in here."

  "What the hell for? I got no interest in ransom."

  "Listen to me."

  "No, you listen. All I want is to shut Knight up before he starts blabbering about his mother. We have to assume he knows at least as much as Reems knew. I tried to buy Reems's silence, even paid off that guard to help him skip jail. In the end, Reems had to go. So does his buddy Theo. Period."

  "Got it covered, dude. Like you said: Theo probably went into hiding. Which means we gotta lure him out into the open." How?

  "Like any fisherman will tell ya, ain't nothin' like live bait." Again he tapped the trunk lid, two quick beats on the metal drum. "And we sot all the bait we need."

  JACK AND ANDIE PARKED beneath a street lamp in the Coconut Grove ghetto. It was after midnight, but some middle-school kids were still out on the street, jumping the curb on bicycles. A homeless guy was asleep or passed out on the sidewalk. The beat of rap mu
sic blared from a pair of giant speakers as a group of gangsters rolled past in their lime-green low-rider.

  "I'll wait here," said Andie.

  Jack couldn't think of another woman he would leave alone in this neighborhood. He got out of her car, stepped onto the sidewalk, and walked toward the restaurant that had once been Homeboy's Tavern.

  He probably could have guessed where Theo had gone, but the Lojack system on Theo's car told him what they needed to know. Law enforcement could access the GPS tracking system, so involving Andie had paid its first dividend.

  Jack spotted Theo's car first, and then he saw Theo. He was alone, sitting on a bus bench and staring into the street with unusual intensity. It was as if the chalk line of his mother's body were still there, an unsolved homicide.

  A westerly breeze carried a hint of smoke, typical of the late spring fires in the Everglades. The night was far from cool, however, and Theo had to be sweating in his leather jacket. Jack knew why he was wearing it. Trina had told him about the gun.

  Jack stopped when he reached the bus bench. Theo was seated at the other end and didn't look at him. He didn't even seem curious as to how Jack had found him.

  "Why'd you come?" Theo asked.

  "To find you," said Jack. "Why did you come?"

  Theo glanced over, and then he looked back at that spot on the street. "Same reason, I guess."

  Jack didn't get it at first. Not very often did he hear Theo make allusions to finding himself. He took a seat on the end of the bench, leaving a comfortable space between him and his friend.

  "I talked to Trina," said Jack.

  Theo showed no reaction.

  Jack said, "You can't do this alone."

  Theo tapped the bulge in his jacket, the handle of his Glock. "I'm not alone."

  "If Redden has done half the things you think he's done, you need a lot more help than that."

  "You got a better idea?"

  "I do."

  "Let's hear it."

  "Andie can explain it better."

  "No FBI," said Theo.

  "She knows."

  Theo shot him a sideways glance. "Henning is cool with that?"

  "Yeah," said Jack. "She is."

  "So the FBI doesn't know shit about this?"

  "No. Only Andie."

  "Damn," he said. "That's a hell of a woman."

  "No kidding," said Jack. "So, you'll talk with her?"

  A bus pulled up and stopped in front of them. The air brakes hissed, the doors opened, but Jack and Theo didn't move. The driver shrugged and pulled away, leaving them in a cloud of diesel fumes.

  Theo turned to look straight at Jack, his eyes narrowing. "I want you to do two things for me."

  "What?"

  "Number one, when this is over, don't you dare blow it with her again."

  Jack smiled. "Deal," he said, as he extended his hand to shake on it.

  Theo shook his hand, but he didn't return the smile. "Two: stay the hell out of this. Both of you."

  Theo rose from the bench and walked away.

  THEO CABBED IT BACK to Gilford's apartment. He hadn't bothered to ask Jack, but he surmised that it was his car's Lojack system that had had given away his location. It was easy enough to taxi around that problem – literally.

  Lance Gilford was right where Theo had left him, gagged and hoe-tied in his garage. Coming this close to drilling through the guy's skull had given Theo pause. He knew that Gilford could hold the key to finding Cy, but Theo didn't want to act out of emotion. A little time alone in the Coconut Grove ghetto had given him a chance to clear his head and devise a plan – the kind of plan that could involve neither Jack nor Andie, neither lawyers nor the FBI.

  Theo put his gun to Gilford's head. "Time to call Fernando Redden."

  Gilford nodded eagerly as if willing to do anything to avoid a bullet in the head – or worse, a drill bit. Theo told him exactly what to say and Gilford nodded once more. Then Theo removed the gag, got the number from Gilford, and dialed on Gilford's phone. No one answered at Redden's house. They tried his cell. Jackpot.

  "What the hell is it now, Lance?"

  "Sorry," said Gilford.

  Theo put his ear next to Gilford's so that he could hear.

  "Sorry, nothin'. It's one o'clock in the morning."

  "I know. I-" Gilford took a breath, and Theo feared he was losing his nerve. Theo glanced at the tool chest – the drill bits – and Gilford fell right back into line, following Theo's script to the letter. "Theo Knight was just here."

  Redden was silent. His tone changed dramatically. "Why?"

  "He's mad as hell about something. Wouldn't say what. But he gave me something to give to you. It's in an envelope. Kind of feels like a videotape."

  "Put it in your machine right now. Tell me what's on it."

  "Forget it. I already know more than I want to know. You come here and get it."

  "I can't," he said, and the strain in his voice was audible. "I got… there's something going on."

  "At this hour?"

  "Just – yeah, at this hour. I need you to bring it to me."

  Gilford looked at Theo. A road trip wasn't in the script, so a little improvisation was in order. Theo nodded his approval. "Okay. I'll bring it to you. You at your house?"

  "No. I'm out at the barn, you'll have to come here." Redden seemed to sense how strange that must have sounded in the middle of the night. "I got a sick foal. Can't leave."

  "Where's your barn?"

  Redden told him. It was in horse country south Miami-Dade County not far from Sparky's Tavern. Theo knew the general area. He flashed five digits, four times.

  Gilford said, "I can be there in twenty minutes."

  Theo gave him the cut signal. Gilford said a quick "See ya," and Theo hit the end button.

  Theo untied Gilford's feet, kept his hands bound, and nudged him toward Gilford's car with his pistol. "Come on," said Theo. "We gotta look after a sick foal."

  Neither man needed to ask if its name was Cy

  Chapter 47

  Fernando Redden tucked his cell into his pocket and went back inside the barn.

  HAPP-Y Stables seemed like the perfect place to keep Cyrus Knight. It was secluded, butting up against a palm-tree nursery on one side and a tomato farm on the other, and it was near Redden's private plane at Tamiami Airport, just in case something went wrong. And there were plenty of places to hide away a hostage. Redden slid open the barn door and closed it. His pupils were adjusted to the night, so he didn't turn on the lights. A horse neighed in the darkness.

  "Easy, girl," he said.

  The stable had stalls for twenty-four horses, a dozen on each side of the long center aisle. Redden owned a dozen thoroughbreds, with plans to acquire more. He also owned the barn, the paddocks, and the surrounding acres of fenced pasture. He'd purchased the entire package for $7.5 million. Every penny had come from the Miami-Dade Housing Agency, thanks to the contacts he'd built as general counsel to his friend the mayor. Nearly $1.8 million had been approved for the construction of two dozen single-family homes, and another $2 million for an apartment building. The rest was earmarked for assisted-living facilities for the elderly. All of the projects were slated for Overtown. Not one was ever built. Fernando Redden kept every penny of the money. He supposed that he would get around to honoring that commitment. Someday. Maybe. For now, he would just enjoy HAPP-Y Stables – the inside joke being that HAPP stood for Housing Agency Project for the Poor.

  Happy was not his mood at the moment, however.

  "Moses!" he said, his voice rattling off the barn's tin roof.

  Moses emerged from the stablehand's quarters at the far end of the stable. He was barely visible in the darkness, and it was only the sound of his footfalls on the concrete floor that enabled Redden to discern his approaching silhouette. With horses on either side of them, they needed only the jangle of spurs to look like two gunfighters squaring off at midnight outside the proverbial Gold Dust Saloon.

  Mose
s stopped and leaned against the hitching post. "What's up, my man?"

  "An old friend of mine just called," said Redden.

  "Who?"

  "Doesn't matter."

  "Then why tell me?"

  "He's on his way over here. Says he has a video for me. It's from Theo Knight. You know anything about it?"

  "Uh-uh," said Moses.

  Redden went for his gun, but Moses moved like lightening to draw his weapon and pressed the barrel up under Redden's chin.

  Redden flashed a stupid, nervous smile. "What…what are you doing?"

  "You were gonna pull a gun on me, weren't you?"

  "No – no, no.”

  Redden hadn't been this scared in years – maybe ever. But he was also furious with himself. Part of him wanted Moses dead, and he wanted to be the one to pull the trigger. Moses had been so convincing in selling an alliance with O-Town Posse. Unless Redden wanted to go to jail, he would eventually have to pay back millions to the Housing Agency. The drug trade's promise of a 200 percent return on investment would allow him to do that without liquidating his ill-gotten real estate. But Moses and his gang had proved to be nothing but trouble.

  "What you want to pull a gun on me for?" said Moses. I wasn’t -

  Moses pushed the gun up tighter beneath his chin. "Cut the bullshit. You got a problem with me, you spit it out. Now!'

  "Okay" he said, his voice quaking. "It's just, you know, our arrangement is starting to feel like a one-way street."

  "Stop talking like you're on fucking Oprah. What's your problem?"

  "All right, I'll say it. You and your O-Town Posse have delivered on nothing. I gave you serious money, and I've still got nothing to show for it. I had to eliminate Reems, you dropped the ball on Knight. I got you out of TGK on bail, you went and killed a state trooper. It goes on and on. That's my problem."

  Moses gave him a little smile, as if impressed that Redden had the guts to say it. He withdrew his weapon and let Redden stand easy.

  "It's coming together, dude," said Moses. "I was just in Atlanta, talking to my contacts. You'll get your return on your money. And I'll personally take care of Knight."