No need to tell him I was satisfied. He was filled with enough self-admiration for both of us. At least we had a viable plan. Good thing, as everything else seemed to be going south.
Southbound 5 freeway was a parking lot. Then Dante took a call.
“What?”
His face turned to stone again. I tensed next to him.
“Yeah. Stay where you are. We’ll be there in ten.” He flicked his bluetooth off.
Ten minutes? I opened my mouth to tell him that he was dreaming, but he swerved into the emergency lane and accelerated to where his engine screamed.
I gritted my teeth and clung to the grab bar above my window. In my side mirror, I saw a line of cars following us. Thankful someone was leading them out of traffic hell? Dante took the next off ramp, still followed by the same cars, a few of them dark sedans.
“What happened?” He’d stopped at a red light. I hadn’t asked him about the call earlier what with the illegal use of the freeway emergency lane. As he’d run the previous two stop signs on side streets, I hadn’t wanted to distract him then either. Not at the speeds we were traveling.
“My boy lost your kid.” Dante chewed his lip.
My heart sank. I’d really been hoping to remove Tyler from danger.
“How?”
“He gave Ang the slip. Kid’s good. Ang’s never lost anyone before. Don’t make a big deal about it when you see him. He’s embarrassed.”
I spent no time thinking about Ang’s shame. I focused on Tyler instead. “Where’d he see him last?”
“Near the courthouse. Ang called for backup and Harm thought he’d seen him doubling back for his shed. Both are there now, but the kid’s not.”
“What if we put the sting in play now?”
A muscle flexed on Dante’s jaw. “I need to make a couple calls.”
“So do I.”
I had no idea if I should do nothing or something. Would my actions save Tyler or put him in worse danger? Since I didn’t know, I chose action. I suppose I always would.
Knowing Ivy’d be busy after church, I left a voicemail at her office. In case things went bad in the next few hours, like me dying again, I told her that I loved her.
I called Frank again. As usual, it went to voicemail. I gritted my teeth. I left the burner’s phone number with him. I told him not to give it to Charlie, and knew I had a fifty-fifty chance he would.
By my count, Dante made five calls in the time, I made my two. Sad that I had no one else to call. For various reasons, I couldn’t contact Bobbi or Haney. I thought of my non-eggplant-eating client, Richard Jarrell. Except for an email Friday, I hadn’t updated him. Should I call him now? My finger poised over his number, and then I pocketed my phone. I had nothing solid to report on the case. I found it a feeble thing that I yearned for one more connection with him, even if it was with his recorded voice. Even if I were about to die or be beaten nearly to death, it was still pathetic.
And I liked Dante’s plan. Chances were good we’d survive.
“You calling Gunnison or am I?” Dante asked.
“I am. After we check the shed.”
We parked in the small lot between a coffee shop and the El Salvadoran restaurant. If we did set a meeting today with Gunnison, I wanted to be packing expresso.
We hopped over a short retaining wall to the alley and found the shed. It had an air of disuse. The yard was lousy with untended trees, laden with avocados, oranges, figs, and persimmons. Maybe the kid hid out here for the free food. As we approached, flies rose over the rotten fruit that lay in the patchy grass. No one ate the fruit on a regular basis.
I’d assumed Ang was Chinese and pictured him beefy and a few chickpeas short of hummus. The former being normal for Dante’s henchmen and the latter for losing Tyler.
When Dante hailed him, I recognized him from my meeting with Lance Dolan as the slightly skinnier, black thug standing guard on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Tough, but at the moment he did look shamefaced. His leather jacket was unzipped. He wore a t-shirt featuring Einstein.
The beefier man next to him was expressionless and hung close to the shed. I wasn’t sure if Harm was a nickname or his actual name. Since I wasn’t in the mood to bond with either, I didn’t ask.
“Nothing?” Dante asked.
Ang shook his head.
“May I see inside?” I pointed to the small house.
With a gesture of gentility I rarely saw in twenty-somethings, Harm opened the door.
From the outside, it looked like a permanent fixture that had been framed and plastered with foggy windows. In other words, it looked like a standard gardening shed.
Peering inside, I gasped. It may have started out as a shed, but someone had transformed it into a micro-home. Not your typical man cave, but something that Ivy might have decorated with comfy but elegant touches. The duvet on the small bed, a cushion on the one chair, and curtains on the two small windows were in woodland colors of greens and browns. The three-foot-long counter with a small sink included a microwave oven and beneath the counter was a tiny fridge and a cupboard. Books and blankets were stored on shelves above the bed. What I thought a narrow closet was a toilet and a shower, which couldn’t be used simultaneously.
“Nice.” While I huddled in a space that could only hold one adult, Dante stood at the doorway and eyed the furnishings with approval. “It’s no food truck, but it’d work as a pad to lay low.”
The fridge had been stocked recently. Since he’d been seen here today, we all knew Tyler was still using the shed.
“You should call Gunnison now.” Dante reverted back to the kid I knew: adrenaline junkie.
Ignoring him, I went through a school notebook I found on the shelf and scraps of paper, mostly grocery receipts, on the counter. The notes were on American history. I saw nothing that might be part of his crime fighting repertoire and nothing that pointed to where he’d gone.
“I’ll call now.” I finally answered Dante. Good for him to work on his patience now and then.
I went through the numbers that Bobbi had texted me for Gunnison. Even though it was Sunday, to show my earnest attempts, I left messages at his office numbers of which he had three. I also left a message with his personal assistant.
Then I called his home number, readying myself for another answering service. The last number I’d used was his personal cell. He answered the home phone immediately with, “I told you never to call me on this number.”
I love responses like that. So many ways to take a conversation to a new level.
Assuming he’d mistaken my burner number as belonging to his mistress, I dropped my voice an octave and added a dollop of husky sexiness.
“Only number I got, sweetheart.” As if I hadn’t left messages on four other numbers. At my change in manner, Dante straightened and happy interest sparked in his compatriots.
“Who is this?” Gunnison’s deep voice demanded, sounding of sorghum and whisky,.
So I couldn’t pull off a nineteen-year-old mistress. “Pam Graff, investigative reporter looking into the disappearance of children connected to you.”
I gambled on identifying as an investigative reporter because politicians rarely hung up on journalists.
“What connection…what children?” he sputtered. Then he went silent. He hadn’t hung up, I still heard him breathing. Congratulating myself on unhinging him, it was me who was startled by his next words.
“Did you say your name was Pamela Graff?”
“You know me?” I blurted, forgetting that I was supposed to be an investigative reporter. Hastily, I tacked on, “You know my work?”
“What do you want?” He hadn’t answered my question and now he sounded nervous.
“Uh, to meet. Are you free now?” I know I sounded rushed and breathless, but I couldn’t remember meeting him.
Dante lifted an eyebrow and mouthed, “Smooth, Ms. Graff, smooth.”
“Where?” the politician asked. Would it be that easy?
Still rattled, he interrupted me. “That won’t work. I gotta call … I mean I have a flight out of John Wayne at 8. I leave work in 30 minutes. Can you meet me in the east courthouse parking garage? Level Five.”
“East courthouse parking garage in 30 minutes. Level Five.” This time I raised an eyebrow at Dante. He grimaced and then shrugged.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” I said.
After disconnecting, I replayed the call. Yeah, Dante had taught me how to do that too. Still a model of courtesy, Harm hung back from listening, though by his head tilt, he strained to hear every word. Ang didn’t bother to pretend. He loomed over me, his ear inches from my cell.
“I don’t like it,” Ang growled seconds after we heard me sign off.
“Guy knew you?” Dante bent a look at me.
I shook my head. “I don’t know how. You think he got wind of me taking Tyler’s case?”
From the tiny house, Harm said, “He didn’t sound fearful till he heard your name, ma’am.”
Teacher habits die hard. Or never die at all. I wanted to give Harm five stars for his sentence construction.
I’d read Gunnison’s reaction the same. The man was afraid. Astounded to hear my name. And then frightened.
Dante gave me a speculative look. His guess might be better than mine. I hadn’t a clue how or why or when or where Gunnison and I may have met.
“Same play,” Dante said. “Different stage. No time to scope out this garage, but …”
“I know it.” Ang stared at me with eyelids at half mast and his lips pursed thoughtfully.
“You been in that courthouse?” Dante asked.
With a twitch, Ang rejected that notion. “Just the garage. Lotta deals go down there.”
I felt that frisson of unease again. “What kind of deals …?”
“We don’t have time to explain,” Dante said. “Can you choreograph this dance, Ang?”
“Yeah. I got this.” The big lad smiled, but I wasn’t entirely reassured. Not because I doubted him. I didn’t. Because I couldn’t shake that feeling of déjà vu. Gunnison knowing my name spooked me.
The last portent of trouble to come? From my vantage, I could see the power line down the street. Egrets perched there.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A deadly meeting. Again.
Filled with cold shadows, the parking garage smelled of mildew and diesel. Natural light poured in from the south and in small electric pools from bulbs by the elevators. Few cars on Level Five on a late Sunday afternoon.
“You okay?” We waited halfway between the elevator and the east stairwell in a long stretch of empty parking spots. Dante stretched and ran in place as if readying himself for a marathon.
Waves of nausea swept through me. I’d been feeling lousy since before the game and anxious about the increase of egrets. I wish I could blame it on nerves, but it felt more like a blackout looming. Couldn’t afford one now as I was close to getting my driver’s license back. And this close to facing the man who may have nearly beaten Tyler to death.
“Ms. Graff?” Dante stepped closer to me, concern creasing his face.
I hadn’t answered his question. “Sorry. Thinking of something else.”
He scowled. “Get your head in the game.”
I’d planned to meet Gunnison alone. After Ang set our perimeters and configured my phone, Dante suddenly decided his hiding spot was too far from the action. If fear for me drove that decision, his stone face hid it.
“Remember to start with …” he said.
“I got this.” When I saw him wet his lips, that instinctive nervous action disarmed me.
“No worries, kid. The man won’t know what hit him.”
His face didn’t alter. “Stick to the plan.” And though he didn’t move, he suddenly felt gone.
With a bang of the stairwell door at the other end of the garage where the sunset still bled through the open air, a short man walked towards us with two body guards. Next to me, Dante stiffened. Thugs. They wore nice suits, but still thugs.
As they paced the length of the level, I felt the atmosphere in the garage change, as if every atom threatened to go nuclear.
“That’s not Gunnison,” I whispered as the men passed the van where Ang and Harm hid. One of the thugs glanced at the vehicle but none broke stride. I felt Dante glance at me, but I couldn’t loosen my attention from the approaching men. We had to play this through, even if they’d changed the rules.
“Where’s Gunnison?” I raised my voice as the men reached us. I focused on the shorter man in the middle. Unlike his bodyguards, he wore a tan, lightweight raincoat over a business suit that seemed more expensive than his companions and had a custom fit around his no-neck, beach ball-shaped body.
Although my attention was on the shorter man, I observed the other two men and Dante too. Teacher, you know. We see everything.
“Miss Graff.” His voice was nasal and high pitched, nails across a blackboard annoying.
I felt nausea rise again. His voice sounded familiar. His round, high cheeked face and flat, pale eyes rang a chord. But from where and when?
“Where’s Gunnison?” I repeated.
“He asked us to meet you. He had a plane to catch.” The man scanned the garage. His gaze skated over the van again, but his survey didn’t pause. His leisurely assessment was for effect, designed to elicit a rise from me.
I didn’t give it to him. “Who are you?”
“I’m hurt that you don’t remember.”
I felt nerves jangle. I did know him? With a jerk of his chin, he indicated Dante. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Doesn’t matter.” How did I know him? Not a good time for my memory to fail me.
The man laughed, a bark without amusement. “Gotta stop meeting like this, Pamela. Know what I mean? You got a thing for parking garages?”
I felt Dante’s glance again. He waited for a signal, but I had none to give him. The game had changed. Not a blackout, and I felt grateful for that. That oppressive sense of déjà vu caused the nausea.
Like a blow to the back of my head, a name appeared. It tasted of blood.
“Pellery?”
His flaccid face went grim. “So you do remember.”
I didn’t. The name came from nowhere. I’d wandered on the wrong stage without a script, but the odors, the cold, and the man facing me felt on cue.
“Too bad,” Pellery said. He didn’t sound regretful. He must have signaled the thug next to him, because the man drew a gun.
“Hey,” Dante said.
“Hey!” Behind Pellery and his men, a teenager echoed Dante’s protest. I hadn’t seen him arrive. He materialized from the shadows of the stairwell nearest us. The other thug wheeled and crouched, his gun trained on the newcomer.
“What are you doing?” the kid shouted.
“Get out of here!” I yelled. Fear for the boy coursed through me and instinctively I stepped forward. Not smart with a gun aimed at me. Dante moved at the same time, but sideways. Shoving me, forcing me to stumble left rather than forward.
“Run,” I screamed. The boy ignored me
So much for using my teacher voice. Pellery seemed to come apart in the sudden chaos. His face fractured between fear and murderous intent.
“Kill them.” His voice was a tin whistle.
“Ang, now!” Dante said at my jacket pocket where my phone rested, but too late. A shot flashed from the thug facing us at the same time Dante tackled me to the hard, cold concrete. With horror, I heard the bang from the other gun and saw the kid crumble.
The garage lit and roared as if grenades exploded. Automatic weapons fire surrounded us. Flash bangs. Ang and Harm did their part.
I pushed Dante off me. One of the thugs was down, but Pellery and the other guy fled to the south, to the stairwell where they’d entered the garage. My bad left leg wobbled as I ran to the
kid who lay on the ground as if dead.
As I crouched next to him, he slapped a hand to his chest and winced. “Ow.”
“You’re okay?” I sounded stupid and disbelieving. I shut my gaping mouth. “He missed you?”
“No, he got me alright.” The boy levered himself to a sitting position and winced again. “Ow.”
“Maybe you should …” I didn’t see blood. I moved closer when he painfully loosened the button of his ragged and overlarge flannel shirt. He wore a bullet proof vest.
I was suddenly aware of three things. The thug lying on the ground wasn’t dead. He rose, blood dripping down his arm, and stumbled to where his gun lay a few feet from me. Second, the door of the stairwell slammed open and a flood of people poured through it. Third, Harm shouted, “Need some help over here.”
Even a teacher can only multi-task so far. I dove for the gun and swung it towards the thug. It only shook a little.
“Freeze.” Thankfully he took me at my word and stilled, blood spattering the concrete.
Some of the people from the stairwell jogged towards me. They wore vests that said FBI. I hoped they weren’t a delusion. One barked at me to drop my weapon while two others grabbed the thug.
I didn’t drop my weapon in case they did prove to be an elaborate hallucination, but I pointed the gun to the ground as I calculated the ricochet angles if it went off. I couldn’t afford to check the safety, but doubted it was engaged. The thug had used it to shoot the teenager.
Who sat on the ground with a complacent look on his face as he surveyed the organized mayhem around us.
“Tyler?” I hazarded.
“Yeah. And you’re Pamela Graff. You sure look better than the last time I saw you.”
I blinked. When had he …? But a familiar voice behind me cut into my confusion.
“Need two ambulances here …”
I spun around. “Charlie?” My brother knocked my hand aside as I’d raised the gun again. Relieved, I let him take it.
“What are you doing here? Pellery got away. Send …”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job. I’m saving your ass,” he said. “And his.” He nodded at Tyler, who responded with a faint, “Yo, man.”
Egrets, I've Had a Few (Deluded Detective Book 2) Page 8
