Evil Cries

by Lala Corriere

  “Good work.”

  Taylor filled Junior in on their newest information. “We have enough crap on this guy, the department will pay for your stakeout. Now I need you to check into more of those philanthropic adventures he’s conducting abroad. The man came into some money, twice, and maybe he truly is the new Father Theresa, blessing the less fortunate with his medical talents. We can’t judge. Not yet.”

  “What about staking out his house?”

  “You’ve not been up there. Driveway gate. The only thing you can see from the road is a section of roof on his huge stables. And it’s so isolated, no car can sit up there waiting for him to come and go without spooking him.”

  Junior turned on his fancy new heels.

  “Where are you going?” Taylor asked.

  “To put in for a different shift. Get paid to sit in my car and eat tofu and granola. No one will know I’m a cop.”

  “I have to buy you some decent boots, Junior. You look like a cop trying not to look like a cop.”

  As Taylor walked Junior out to the front desk, Shirley grabbed her computer and her purse, catching the strap on the back of the chair and tumbling to the hard surface floor, only trying to protect her computer. She heard the loud crack and knew it was trouble. Her ankle. Maybe her arm.

  Chapter 70

  “Today’s the day, men.”

  I HADN’T SEEN MARCUS in my store for some time. Busy with a customer, he amused himself by looking at my new arrivals and a quick tour of my gem and mineral room.

  “You still have our precious baby. I’m so glad to see her displayed here.”

  “You’d love it if I could sell her.”

  “I love her right here. I’ve stopped by with great news. A new foal was delivered in my stables two nights ago. Knowing your love of horses, I thought maybe you could come out and see this beauty for yourself.”

  Yes. I would love to see the wonderful creature.

  VICTOR ROMERO SAT AT Tucson International Airport’s cell phone waiting parking lot. He was early and his wife’s plane was late.

  Cursing at himself for not checking the status of her flight before he left home, he started playing with his gadgets.

  His GPS needed map updating. For a price. He fumbled for his credit card, opened up their website on his new tablet, and entered in the magic numbers.

  He wasn’t very active on Facebook, with only a handful of friends, but lots of family. He checked to see if maybe one of his four grandchildren had posted anything.

  Nothing.

  He checked his emails and he wasn’t very good at that, either. Mostly junk mail from the fishing and tackle shop he frequented with the same credit card he had just used.

  Romero did have some computer skills when it came to his programs. Almost on auto-pilot he began searching for any credit card activity Zoey may have. Of course he knew it was fruitless. Her purse was left behind in her work van.

  His cell rang. The call he had been waiting for like as if he was one of Mel Fisher’s men onboard The Atocha, listening to Fisher holler out, day after day, “Today’s the day, men!”

  Romero’s hand shook as he answered the call.

  “Victor Romero, this is Sergeant Garland. It’s about Ms. Zoey Lane’s second cell phone. We have a ping, Sir.”

  They have a ping!

  Romero called Steve Taylor.

  TAYLOR WAS THE MASTER OF control even though he wanted to leap out of his oxford’s without untying them.

  “I have the report in front of me,” Taylor said. “Vic, where are you?”

  “I’m picking my wife up at the airport. I’m not eight miles away.”

  “You don’t know that,” Taylor said. “We have triangulation data off of a tower. Three coordinates.”

  “But there isn’t much out there,” Romero said.

  “Romero. Sit tight. Is your wife with you?”

  “She can catch a friggin’ cab.”

  “We have to do this right. We need to coordinate a team. Bring in the big guys.”

  “Bullshit. I’m packing heat and I’m on my way. She’s like my daughter!”

  Romero hung up.

  Chapter 71

  The Crowbar & the Angel

  ROMERO KNEW THAT THE La Cholla Business District was anything, but a district. Years ago, several airhead developers thought they could build a bunch of warehouses and the businesses would come. They didn’t. The land was too far away from the city and too far away from the airport. Much of the land remained raw with acres of cholla cacti. Fluffy as teddy bears, beautiful and nefarious for their ability to jump at you, pierce your skin, and draw blood.

  He had the coordinates down pat and turned at right at the first opportunity.

  More buildings than he thought.

  The first five buildings boasted fresh looks, professional signs, and cars out front with people coming and going. Real businesses.

  Romero kept driving. As he made his way further back in toward the second coordinate, three structures appeared to be vacant. No signs. No cars. No apparent commerce going on there.

  He circled around. The closer he got to the main street, Valencia, the more robust seemed to be the industry. Another six buildings that appeared to be occupied and thriving.

  The area wasn’t as deserted as he had thought.

  He called Taylor, fully aware that the detective would be mad as hell at him hanging up on that last phone call.

  “I have three likely buildings,” Romero said. “They look vacant. Here are the addresses.” He rattled them off to Taylor.

  “You stay put. We’ll have a team out there in fifteen—maybe twenty minutes. Don’t go all crazy on me, Romero. It could be some kids found the phone and got it working. And it could be a dungeon of evil.”

  Romero hung up. Again.

  THE FIRST BUILDING WAS easy enough to enter. Romero simply broke a window. He entered the structure, cut and bleeding and pissed off that the glass hitting the tile floor made so much noise.

  With his weapon drawn, the warehouse proved easy to search. It housed a total of five expansive rooms, an office, and two bathrooms. All were clear. Empty and long forgotten real estate that someone had lost a fortune on.

  Romero drove to the second building. Larger. Maybe twice the size of the first one.

  He texted his wife to grab a cab, before climbing out of his oh-so-obvious shiny green P.T. Cruiser.

  Peering through the front windows, all he could see was one vast empty space. He walked the entire perimeter of the building, and with every window he had the same view. One empty shell. Not even a closet.

  Determined, he jumped back into his car. He’d left his cell phone on the passenger seat and took a quick peek. Two calls. One would be from his angry wife. One from an angry Detective Taylor. Romero drove on to the third building without listening to either message.

  It didn’t take him long to loathe this building. Boarded up. Wrought-iron security at every window. Few windows at that.

  Romero went back to his P.T. Cruiser and pulled out the crow bar. He grabbed his cell phone and put it in his pocket, only after ensuring it was silenced. He pulled out a couple more magazines for his gun. Just in case. He smelled something wrong and something so right. His little Zoey was inside.

  He inspected the windows around the entire perimeter of the building, keeping a keen ear for any approaching vehicles. He inspected them again. All closed up with blinds. No peeking. Newer windows at the front and both sides. Older ones in back. Why even bother with new windows on this crap of a warehouse, he wondered.

  One window, he deemed, would be his friend. It had the old-style crank shift opener, and the window was slightly ajar.

  “This is it,” he whispered to himself. “Zoey is alive. I can feel her.”

  It proved to be no easy task to penetrate the weakest link. Romero felt the flash of grinding pain at his rotator cuff as he clobbered away at the window with his crow bar. The sun was lowering in the western skies, but he s
till had plenty of sunlight. Although it had maybe been only ten minutes, it felt like a lifetime to him. There was no backup and he didn’t give a damn. Once inside he only fell to his knees for a brief moment to pray to his god.

  Guided by instinct and adrenaline, Romero cleared his way through a maze of passages. This was no warehouse space.

  Trap doors. False doors. Rickety doors. And nothing, but a maze of empty small spaces. He listened to his angels. Or Zoey’s angels. Or whomever’s damn angels would help him.

  “I’m coming for you, my angel.”

  Chapter 72

  Dark Promise

  VICTOR ROMERO CONDUCTED a solo search and clear, with his gun drawn and his flashlight held firm. Room by tiny room that made no sense for what was presumed to be warehouse space.

  Operating from the back of the building where he had entered proved to be his prayers answered. It took him only minutes to spy the steel door with multiple locks on the outside securing the contents inside.

  Heavy duty barrel bolts. Sliding bolts. Surface bolts. And clearly this was no distribution center for locks.

  Romero took in a gasp of the stale air. Now or never. Center. Calm down and focus. With the release of his third deep breath, he realized the bolts were on the outside. That meant no threat would be on the inside. Not right now.

  He called out to Zoey, “I’m here, baby. It’s me, Zoey. It’s your bonus dad and we’re going to get you out of here.”

  Nothing.

  That nothing would not deter Romero, as he threw the bolts open and stormed into the darkened room.

  SHIRLEY CALLED ME AT HOME, her voice anxious and clipped, “We have a lead on where Zoey might be. A good lead.”

  “Oh my god! Where?”

  “Darling, this is all I have for you now. I knew you would want to know and I can’t talk any longer. We’re on it. Sit still and I’ll call you later.”

  “But where?”

  “Darling, I can’t tell you that.”

  “But you’re there, right?”

  “Not this time. Seems I broke my ankle.”

  The connection went dead.

  I WAS IN MY KITCHEN packing up a no-fail rum cake. A desert that would travel this time. I had promised Marcus that I’d meet him at his ranch to see a new foal of his. Complimentary dinner, of course. I thought about cancelling, but Gage and I had gotten into yet another fight, right when I thought we were mending our ways. Shirley would let me know about Zoey the minute she knew anything. I needed something, or maybe someone, to occupy my mind. I freshened up. I had some fabulous ideas about what to wear for my evening at the ranch with Marcus. It was getting late when I finally chose a flimsy and fringed dress with rhinestones, like the Rhinestone Cowgirl, I suppose, and gladiator shoes won out over my cowboy boots. I wasn’t going riding, after all. I was just going out to see a foal. And why the hell did I care what I wore?

  With my promise of a most excellent dessert that wouldn’t arrive in a heap of mushy sludge, I headed for Marcus’ beautiful property. The sight of a newly born horse would feed my soul. My soul needed nourishment. I had to remind myself again that there was nothing I could do about Zoey. Shirley would call me.

  VICTOR ROMERO STOOD, his eyes needing to adjust to more darkness far beyond the cavities of the building he had winded through.

  He may have felt it first before he really saw anything. A small steel bed, almost like a gurney. The IV pole and the bags hanging from it. The chains.

  And the most marvelous thing of all. Those chains restrained warm arms and warm legs.

  “Oh my God, dear Zoey. We’re going to get you out of here. I knew you were a survivor. I knew you were alive.”

  Romero raised his voice after feeling only a week pulse and no response from Zoey. “Zoey! It’s me. Your Daddy Romero.”

  “You listen to me, girl. I’m here. It’s all over. I’m here.”

  “Listen to me, Zoey. Listen to me!”

  But Romero, in all of his exhilaration at finding Zoey Lane alive, forgot to listen.

  Chapter 73

  Out of Practice

  VICTOR ROMERO HAD lost all sense of police protocol. He lost all common street smarts. He should have called in. He should have waited for backup.

  All he saw was his beautiful girl in chains and alive, but lifeless.

  Once a cop, always a cop. He recognized that distinct sound of a click. His own gun had fallen to the floor beside Zoey when he had reached to cradle her.

  “You’re way out of practice,” the voice loomed.

  Romero knew what he was about to say would likely be the end of him, but it may buy Zoey some time. “I may be out of practice, but I’m practiced enough to know that there’s an army coming for you.”

  Victor Romero, shot point blank in the center of his forehead, became silenced. An instant death.

  Sacrum said, “I gotta get out of here. Girl or no girl. If she lives she can’t identify us anyway.”

  Marcus said, “I have a date. A very important date. Let’s go.”

  STERLING ARRIVED AT THE RANCH to find the driveway gate open, as well as the fortress gate at the front door. She rang the front bell and Chef was prompt to greet her.

  “Dr. Armstrong is delayed. He asked that I pour you a glass of wine and he’ll be here shortly,” the man said.

  “Well, maybe I’ll just head over to the stable and meet your new guest. The new addition to the stables.”

  “No. Dr. Armstrong asked that you wait here.”

  I shrugged my shoulders with a slight shake of my head. “Okay. If that’s his wish.”

  “Find any seat on our patios out back. Would you like a fine Chardonnay we just imported?”

  “Very good,” I said.

  He smiled at me. “Imported all the way from Willcox, Arizona,” he said. “It’s from the Pillsbury Wine Vineyards.”

  Wow. More conversation than I’ve ever heard from the man. “I’ve tasted their wines and I adore them. They win out over all the best of them. Thank you, Chef.”

  Chef nodded and disappeared.

  I picked at a plate of ceviche and, by then, had consumed two delicious glasses of the Pillsbury wine. Chef came in to collect my plate. I told him it was time for me to go.

  “Oh, no, Ms. Falls. Dr. Armstrong is five minutes away and he’s asked I take you to the stables.”

  “I can drive down there.”

  “Forgive me. I’m instructed to take you over there in Dr. Armstrong’s golf cart. Loaded with the rest of your meal.”

  I guess conversation and niceties came via instructions, but I acquiesced. “Of course.”

  I grabbed my purse and my sturdy rum cake as Chef lifted up the bottle of Chardonnay, another bottle, and two clean glasses. “The meal is already in the cart, Ms. Falls.”

  Chef dropped me off in front of the lighted stables and led me inside. After displaying the wine, the glasses, and a picnic basket at the far end on a table covered with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth, he turned to leave.

  “I assure you,” he said, “Dr. Armstrong will see you in minutes, but he doesn’t want you to see his new treasure until he can present the foal to you. I’ve set out more of the ceviche and fruit for you.”

  His voice delivered his dead pan seriousness. Back to his usual delightful temperament of borderline resentment, if not hostility.

  “I’ll sit right here,” I said. With wine and delicious foods set out before me, I could manage.

  IN A RARE MOMENT OF IMPATIENCE, Taylor screamed at Junior through his Bluetooth, “Find out who the devil owns this stinking warehouse. Who are the players?”

  “Not apparent. An LLC.”

  “Bullshit! You should be able to find any principles or partners on any LLC in two minutes flat, Elizah.”

  “I’m all over it, Boss, but I’m telling you we’re coming up empty.”

  “I’m not your dang boss,” Taylor snapped.

  Junior stood his ground, for maybe the first time. “Sir, I ac
tually prefer you call me Eli or Junior. And we already know the holder of the property. It’s listed as SACRUM Holdings, LLC.”

  “Fine. So who’s behind this LLC?”

  “One would think it would take those two minutes, but this one isn’t so simple. The names don’t pan out. Not yet. A bunch of dead guys. I have three names and three Social Security numbers and they’re all deceased. They’ve all been dead for over twenty years.”

  Taylor sat behind the wheels of his car, siren blaring. A brigade of cars behind him. “Sheesh. You can’t get to the trail of ownership of a fucking-maybe-shell company?

  Junior took in a deep breath for the umpteenth time. “No. Not yet, Sir.”

  “Stay with me on this one, Junior. And I guess I like when you call me sir. Sir definitely works for me. Keep digging, Junior. Shirley’s on it?”

  “In all of her glory. And her glory is tough, but she’s pissed as all get out that she’s not on the scene.”

  “We’re pulling up to the building now. You guys stay at it.”

  SHIRLEY’S MOUTH SLACKENED as she scratched her jaw with one hand and fired through computer files with the other, her broken ankle not yielding to the pain pills because she didn’t take them.

  “What the hell?” she blurted out to no one. No trace of any real managing members. No trace of any real members. Not an easy feat to pull off. Someone—or some ones—were very tricky.

  With a now unfocused gaze at her computer monitor, Shirley deep-sixed her emotions about Zoey and forced herself back to her early days at Quantico. Something was so blatantly missing it should be obvious.