The fake beard he was wearing was itching him something awful, but he resisted the desire to scratch and kept his eyes on the bank.
He’d been waiting for more than an hour, ever since the bank opened. To kill time, he’d read the morning newspaper almost all the way through, where news of the murder of Mrs. Gould still commanded the front page. Today, it was a story on Dr. Gould. The whole thing was a shame, but it had to be done that way. His boss knew what he was doing, and as long as he got paid, who was he to argue with the methods used?
The boss had given him an earful the night before, after the Coleman woman had almost escaped, and he counted his blessings he’d been able to capture her again and the boss hadn’t fired him. But that was then and this was now, and he wasn’t going to allow anything to go wrong this time.
He was pleased the boss took care of most of the dirty work. The final disposal of Mrs. Coleman’s body would be up to him, but at least he wasn’t the one who had to perform the unpleasant task of taking her life. It made him a bit squeamish and he had to draw the line somewhere.
He straightened up and leaned forward when he saw his target round the corner and enter the bank, carrying a briefcase in one hand. He would give it a few minutes. He assumed Coleman had called ahead to arrange for the money to be ready, so it wouldn’t take him long to get the funds and leave.
He waited five minutes and then sauntered up the sidewalk to the corner, waited for the walk signal to appear, and then crossed the street behind a couple of old ladies who took their sweet time about it.
He walked a dozen yards and leaned against the wall at the corner of the bank, lit a smoke, slipped on a pair of thin leather gloves and waited. Before long, he butted his half-finished cigarette on the sidewalk as Walter Coleman stepped from the bank and turned his way, a briefcase dangling from one hand.
Now.
He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and tightened his fist around the grip of his trusty pistol, his finger poised on the trigger. This was gonna be easy.
He withdrew the pistol, took two steps forward, and stopped as Coleman approached. He held the weapon at arm’s length, pointed straight at the heart of his target.
“Give me the briefcase.”
He heard a muffled scream and glanced toward the sound. Through the window of the bank he saw a wide-eyed woman looking his way, rising from her chair behind a desk. It was one of the loan officers, her office conveniently located with a view of the street.
The robber turned back to Coleman. “I said, give me the briefcase.”
Coleman swung the case forward and handed it to the thief. “Don’t shoot, please.”
“I won’t shoot you.” The robber took the case with his gun hand, dangling it from two fingers, careful to keep the weapon trained on Coleman. Then with his other hand, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folded paper. He handed it to Coleman. “This is for you.”
He chanced a look through the bank window as Coleman took the note from his hand. He could see through the office to the main area of the bank. It was a chaotic scene. He’d better get out of here and fast.
“Don’t try to follow me,” he said and switched the briefcase to his other hand, then spun around and pounded up the sidewalk in the opposite direction.
He glanced over his shoulder. Coleman was still standing there, looking stunned, the note clutched in his hand. A security guard had exited the bank and was yelling at the robber to stop. Fat chance. He couldn’t figure out why they always wasted their breath that way—as if a robber is ever going to stop just because some dummy tells him to.
He chuckled as he ran. This job was well planned, the boss had taken care of all the details and he was going to make a nice fat five grand to do a simple job. Along with what he was already getting paid, he would be living on easy street.
A couple of passersby heard the security guard yell and were about to interfere, but soon changed their minds and stepped back when he brandished the gun in their direction. He knew from prior experience, nobody was fool enough to interfere when they could intercept a bullet. That just wasn’t human nature and nobody cared that much about someone else’s money.
But the security guard—that was a different story. He was overweight, but he was coming up the sidewalk as fast as his pudgy legs could carry him, still yelling.
The mugger rounded a corner, down a narrow street—a laneway, tucked between two towering buildings. A shot cracked behind him. The stupid security guard was shooting at him. The bullet missed by a mile, but the robber stopped quick, spun around, and returned a shot, aiming high. He probably could’ve nailed him easy as pie, but didn’t see the need to kill the dumb twit.
The shot did its job. The guard stopped and ducked behind a dumpster out of sight, probably thinking a little differently now about chasing an armed man, and anyway, he would never catch him.
He rounded another corner and ducked into the open passenger door of a waiting car. The vehicle pulled from the curb, merged into traffic, and sped away. He looked through the rear window. Nobody was following, they were safely away and the security guard would probably get a bonus for trying to stop an armed robber.
All in all, this was a win-win situation.
Chapter 29
Friday, September 2nd, 10:35 a.m.
JAKE WAS PACING the living room floor expecting a call at any time, anxious to hear from the kidnapper who’d promised to phone this morning. He was uneasy about Mrs. Coleman’s safety and wanted this to go off without a hitch.
He started when his cell phone rang, then pulled it from his pocket and looked at the caller ID. It was Coleman, not the kidnapper.
“Jake Lincoln.”
“Jake, it’s Walter Coleman. It appears I won’t need your services after all.” Coleman explained how he’d been accosted outside the bank and the money taken from him. He finished with, “The robber handed me a note before he ran.”
“Read it to me.”
“It says, ‘Thank you from the Merchant of Life.’”
“Was it written on newsprint?”
“Yes.”
The fact that a note written on newsprint had been left on the body of Mrs. Gould hadn’t been released to the public. And now this note, also written on the same type of paper, seemed to prove this was the work of the same kidnapper. It couldn’t be a copycat.
“Have you heard from your wife yet?” Jake asked.
“Not yet, and I’m concerned.”
“We’ve kept our end of the bargain, Mr. Coleman. All we can do now is wait and pray for her safe return.”
“Should I … should I call the police?”
Jake hesitated. “Not until your wife is home. We don’t want to endanger her.”
“Yes, yes, whatever you think is right, but there were witnesses. It happened right in front of the bank. I left right away because of my wife, but I’m sure they’ve called the police.”
“Mr. Coleman, will you bring that note to me? Or I can pick it up, whatever you prefer. And try not to handle it too much; it might have fingerprints on it.” Jake doubted there would be, but still, you never knew.
“I’ll drop it over to you right away. I’m still on the road and not far from your place.”
Jake terminated the call. He’d wandered into the kitchen during the phone call and sat down, setting his cell on the table. He was unsure what to do now. This was a messy situation and the police would need to be informed … eventually. But for now, Mrs. Coleman was the top priority.
His phone rang again. He scooped it up and looked at the caller ID. Unknown number.
“Jake Lincoln.”
“Good morning, my friend. I’m sure you’re aware by now a successful transaction has taken place?”
“I’m aware.”
“The funds have been counted and the amount is correct.”
“And Mrs. Coleman?”
“Ah, dear Mrs. Coleman. She’s a feisty one.”
Jake ignored the comment
and waited.
“She tried to leave before our transaction was brought to a satisfactory conclusion. Needless to say, I wasn’t happy.”
“You have your money now. Have you let her go?”
“Not yet, Jake. I’m weighing the matter.”
Jake’s frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“She was a party to the contract as well and she tried to break her side of the deal by prematurely terminating our acquaintance.”
Jake jumped to his feet, glared at the phone and shouted, “We kept our end of the bargain. The police weren’t called and you have the money.”
“Calm down, my friend.”
Jake took a deep breath and spoke firmly. “You must release her immediately.”
“I would Jake, I would, but …”
“Yes?”
“Unfortunately, during Mrs. Coleman’s attempt at leaving us before the proceedings were concluded, she happened to catch a glimpse of my colleague. Fortunately, he was able to coax her to return and stay with us until such time as our deal could be concluded, but there’s no guarantee she’ll remain loyal to our bargain.”
“I can assure you, she will.”
“But you can’t speak for her, Jake.”
“Let her go … please. I’m begging you.”
A deep eerie laugh came over the line. “It doesn’t become you to beg, Jake.”
“Just let her go.”
“I’ll consider your request.”
The line went dead.
~~*~~
ANNIE WAS UPSTAIRS and when she heard Jake shouting, she was curious. She dropped the load of laundry and hurried down to the kitchen.
Jake was sitting at the table, his head in his hands.
She stood beside him and placed her hand on his back. “What is it?”
Jake lifted his head and looked at her. He told her about Coleman’s call and the robbery and then said, “The kidnapper just called. I … I don’t think he’s going to let Mrs. Coleman go free.”
Annie sat at the table and leaned forward. Jake’s grief for innocent victims weighed him down and he was taking this personally.
“We’ll get him,” Annie said.
“Yes, but how many victims will he kill before we do?”
Annie sighed. There was no answer to that question.
When the doorbell rang, Jake stood. “That’ll be Walter Coleman.” Jake followed Annie into the foyer, where she let Coleman in and invited him in to the living room. Coleman took a seat at one end of the couch, Annie at the other, facing him, her hands in her lap. Jake settled into the armchair.
Annie saw the worry on Coleman’s face and the sadness in his eyes. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a piece of paper. “Here’s the note,” he said, leaning forward and handing it to Annie. She took it by one corner and dropped it on the coffee table, then used the tip of a pen to help unfold it, careful not to mar any fingerprints that might be on it.
Jake leaned forward and read the note out loud. “Thank you from the Merchant of Life.”
Annie spoke. “It appears to me the kidnapper wasn’t sure whether or not we’d called the police and he devised this foolproof plan to get the money in a way no one could anticipate.”
“But where’s my wife?” Coleman asked, his shoulders slumped.
Annie debated with herself. Should she tell Coleman about the kidnapper’s call and that he might not let Mrs. Coleman go free, or should she remain quiet and hope for the best? She exchanged a glance with Jake, his eyes telling her he was unsure as well.
“We’ll have to give it a bit of time,” Jake said.
Coleman nodded. “I … I guess that’s all we can do.”
“Mr. Coleman,” Annie said. “The police have a few leads and they’re working around the clock to find the kidnappers, so don’t give up hope.”
Coleman closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re right, of course, but if I don’t hear from her in a couple of hours, I … I think I’ll call the police. The witnesses at the bank might be able to recognize the robber, but right now, the police have no reason to see it as anything other than a mugging.”
“Whatever decision you make, we’ll honor that,” Jake said. “I’m hesitant to advise you either way, but the question is not if we notify the police, but when.”
Chapter 30
Friday, September 2nd, 11:35 a.m.
ROSEMARY COLEMAN was a determined woman. Who wouldn’t be, when faced with almost certain death?
Her captor was making no effort now to hide his face. That could only mean one thing. They were never going to let her out of here, at least not alive.
He’d been coming down to check on her more often now, careful in coming down the stairs in case she caught him unawares again, and he always wore a mocking grin when he saw her, still trussed up and helpless.
There could only be one reason they still held her and still kept her alive. Her husband hadn’t paid the ransom yet. Their bank account was pretty healthy, but she had no idea how much they would ask, and once the money was rounded up and paid, she was doomed.
She had to get out of here.
The door at the top of the stairs rattled and she heard a footstep. Soon his legs appeared, then his head came into view, the evil grin again twisting his face.
“I’m glad to see you’re still here,” he said.
She didn’t try to answer. She couldn’t. The duct tape over her mouth made it hard to breathe, impossible to talk. She showed her hatred through her eyes, determined never to let her fear take over.
He laughed and crouched in front of her. “I just wanted to let you know, your husband paid us.”
She fought back the panic. Had he come to kill her now?
“The boss’ll deal with you when he gets here. Don’t worry, it won’t be long now.”
What did he mean?
Then he stood and ambled back up the stairs, humming to himself. The door slammed, a bolt lock slid, and she was alone again.
Sore from sitting so long on the hard concrete, she leaned back against the metal support column and adjusted her weight. She had little room to move. Her shoulders ached from her hands stretched behind her and tied around the pole with not one, but two cable ties. But at least her legs were free.
Though she sat now, off and on she had stood by pushing with her back against the pole, folding her legs underneath, then heaving up and sliding her bound wrists up the pole. It was uncomfortable to stand for long in that position, but it alleviated the discomfort from prolonged sitting.
She had slept sporadically throughout the night, but had spent as much time as possible working at the ties, rubbing them against the pole in an effort to wear them through, stretching with her wrists until raw and sore. She hadn’t made much headway, though. Perhaps none.
But she had a few minutes before her captor came back and she had devised another plan.
The building was old and probably destined for demolition before long. She dug at the concrete with the heel of her runner. It didn’t do much good, but it told her the concrete was starting to rot from age and ever-present dampness.
She glanced at the ceiling. It appeared solid near the walls, but then bowed down somewhat, and then back up at the center of the room where the pole supported the ceiling and the floor above.
It was a desperate and dangerous plan and might not work, but it was all she could think of.
She had noticed the base of the pole gave slightly when she forced her weight against it. Very slightly, but perhaps she could loosen the screws from the rotting concrete if she worked at it.
Struggling to her feet, she was glad she’d spent a lot of time jogging and working out. She’d built up her leg muscles that way and she was going to need all the strength she could muster.
While balancing on one leg, she kicked back with the other foot against the pole. Yes, it moved, almost an imperceptible amount, but it had moved. She kicked again and again and then worked her way around
to the other side of the pole and kicked some more. After several minutes, she was getting somewhere. Her crazy plan just might work.
The door opened again, so she slid back down the pole and closed her eyes. She heard footsteps, then a chuckle, and he retreated back up.
She continued her work. Her right leg was strongest, but the bottom of her foot was getting sore. She switched legs and continued, until finally, the pole moved a couple of inches.
The ceiling creaked. She looked up into dust, released as the ceiling settled. The bottom of the pole was loosened and another heave or two would swing it free. The top of the pole was still fastened to the rotting beams, but the screws at one edge had begun to work loose.
It was now or never.
Her rubber soles increased the friction as she dug in her heels, bent her knees, took a deep breath, and heaved.
A scrape. A creak. She groaned. Then timber crackled and the pole broke free and dragged her to the floor, her arms still behind her back.
The ceiling had bowed and she heard the squeal of wood against wood as the floor above her settled.
She slipped her tied wrists down the pole and off the end and then crouched and swung her hands under her feet and in front of her. Her wrists were still tied, but she was otherwise free.
The ceiling groaned again.
Footsteps sounded above. Running. A shout.
She dove for the corner. The ceiling was coming down and that was the safest place.
Like Samson, she’d brought down the column where she’d been bound, but she hoped that unlike Samson, she wouldn’t have sacrificed herself in the process.
She lay in a fetal position, her face to the wall, her hands protecting her head, as broken floorboards and what had once been a ceiling crashed and settled around her.
Chapter 31
Captive Justice: A Private Investigator Mystery Series (A Jake & Annie Lincoln Thriller Book 4) Page 11
