The Ringer

by Amber Malloy

  Splitting his attention between Lane and the rearview mirror, he sparked the ignition. He threw the car in gear before he hit the gas to back out of the recently departed Dennis Bleacher’s driveway.

  The sound of one more shots ricocheting off the front of the truck encouraged him to whip it from reverse and pull off.

  “Are you all right?” he huffed. Admittedly, Lane’s last meltdown had freaked him out. When she pulled her head up, her eyes were wide with fear.

  “Do you want to shoot or drive?”

  “What?” She turned around to see what he stared at in the rearview mirror.

  “Can you take the wheel?” he asked in the same soothing tone on a jittery suspect.

  “No. I can’t.” She checked the magazine of her pistol before ramming it back into place. “I’d drive us straight off the road.” She rolled down the window.

  She fired off three rapid shots before she popped back into the truck’s cab. He stomped the accelerator to the floor and tried to keep focused on the highway’s faded yellow lines.

  Another bullet hit his side mirror. She went out again and unloaded the rest of her clip. The lights behind them swerved off the road as brakes and tires squealed across the pavement. He waited to see their headlights come back into view, but it remained pitch black.

  From what Raff had told him, Jax was positive Mortiz and Franco were the shooters. He wondered why they hadn’t taken the kill shot closer to the victim’s house.

  The crooked cops must have wanted them to panic. It would be better to run them off the road. Car accidents needed no explanation, but a double homicide was always investigated. Everything in Mortiz and Franco’s plan may have worked except for one minor detail—Lane. While his heart thumped wildly, he couldn’t have been more grateful that Lane Garrett was one heck of a grenade.

  ***

  Nearly two hours later, Jax took the ramp to a rest stop Well over the Iowa-Nebraska border, he was far enough from Dennis Bleacher’s house he decided to call it in. He didn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to trace his call to the police as he pulled into a parking spot.

  He turned to Lane who hadn’t made a peep since they left the victim’s house. Her silence was worse than her hysteria. He didn’t know what she was thinking.

  Perhaps everything at stake had just dawned on her, but he got the feeling it was something more. He shook her arm to get her attention. Turning her head, she stared straight through him.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, lifting his phone to his ear. “Got to alert the proper authorities about the murder.”

  She nodded, but he wasn’t sure she really understood. Worried about her, he didn’t want to leave her long, so he hurried out of the cab.

  He put his finger in his other ear to block out the frigid wind. He gave the Omaha dispatcher a tall tale about his sick uncle not answering the phone. At a quick clip, he begged the woman to send a uniform out for a wellness check. All the while, Jax kept an eye on the time. He didn’t want The Chicago PD tracing his call.

  Satisfied by his pathetic dinner theater performance, he slammed the burner phone on the ground, and then smashed it under his foot.

  Numb. She didn’t know they had stopped.

  Jax was on the phone, calling in the murder. He must have told her before he pulled over, but she honestly couldn’t remember. The constant playback in her head blocked everything else around.

  She wasn’t sure how long ago they found Dennis Bleacher’s body. The image of him lifeless on the floor flashed in her mind. For the briefest of moments, the movie circled back to the poor man lying in a pool of his own blood, alone.

  More than anything, the alone part bothered her. Overwrought from the hustle and bustle of running, she opened the truck’s door and stepped down into the cool temperature.

  Still not quite sure which Midwest state they were in, she allowed the crinkle of dry grass underneath her gym shoes to propel her forward. She walked off into a prairie before the uncontrollable tremble in her legs could start. Her fear manifested into the shakes and then work its way through her. Unable to move another step, she dropped to the ground and threw up.

  She purged the grief and sadness from her soul until she emptied everything.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered in her ear.

  She fell back in the grass, violently sobbing. Lane opened her eyes, hoping the horror of it all wasn’t true, but found they were still in a barren field. Cocooned within his arms, she started to quiet down.

  “We can go to Seattle together. Some place where there’s no one shooting at us, no dead bodies. We can open a shop and drink lots and lots of coffee,” he told her.

  A weak chuckle was all she could manage. The mere idea of an escape sounded like a dream come true. “What about the men who did this?” she whimpered. “What will happen to them?”

  “They’ll be a problem for someone else.”

  For years, she had lived her a solitary life. Not thin enough, the voice in her head would tell her. Not successful enough. But despite everything, she wasn’t a coward. Capable of more tears, she lay in his arms and cried for herself and the former life she hated as well as a safe future that was now well out of reach.

  Instead of Jax spouting some nonsense implying she should toughen up, he pulled her tighter to his chest and let her cry.

  “No,” she croaked once she allowed the pity party she’d thrown herself to pass. “They don’t deserve to get away with this. Let’s make them pay.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The White Sox were in the lead at the bottom of the seventh; two more wins would solidify their spot in the World Series.

  With no true interest in the game, Julian walked to Lockland’s private box and flashed his badge at the guard. Allowed into the sanctuary of the well off and away from the drunken monkeys who actually worshiped the games, he walked inside Parker’s church.

  Prestige made the world go around. It was all anyone cared about, especially the rich. Their main goal was to make sure they stayed wealthy.

  “Mayor, Commissioner, Lockland.” He sneered at the sight of the three stooges. “My invite must have gotten lost in the mail.” He plucked an hors d’oeuvre from the catering cart and popped the fancy shrimp into his mouth. Succulent and tasty; Julian never expected anything less from the Locklands. Only the best for the pompous fools.

  “An invitation to you?” Lockland cackled with arrogant humor. “I already have someone to shine my shoes, Blanchard. What do I need you for?” The laughter in the group was halfhearted. The old men didn’t want to join in his childish prodding. Apparently, age made crooked politicians a lot wiser than wealthy deviants.

  “God you’re an ass,” he said before he helped himself to a beer. He popped the top with the opener and downed most of the bottle in a couple of gulps. He hadn’t had a cool one in eons.

  “If this has anything to do with my request for your letter of resignation,” the mayor began, “then we need to take this up during business hours.”

  “Not at all.” He hurried to cut the blow-hard off while he reached for another brewski. “This meeting is about a lesson in diplomacy.” Julian grabbed a handful of nuts from the tray and shoved them in his mouth.

  Top notch. He crunched away on the expensive cashews and watched the White Sox score another run. A seat at the World Series didn’t seem like a bad idea after all.

  Almost forgetting why he’d come, he studied the faces of all three political animals. They held the expression of pure hate in different stages. Parker won the award for the most disgusted of them all with his nasty sneer settled in place. He decided to save him for last.

  “I believe I’ve been going about this thing all wrong. The reporter you sicced on my department gave me an illuminist peek into the future.”

  “If you don’t get to the point, Blanchard, I’m going to call security,” Parker threatened.

  “Be my guest,” Julian said before he poured himself a shot of someth
ing decadent and smooth. “It would be quite unfortunate for every single one of you. Commissioner, you sober enough for this?”

  The man’s droopy left eye twitched. A good sign he hadn’t stopped breathing. “I’ve got dash cam footage of you driving under the influence from the past ten years.” Julian said.

  The mayor waved his threat off. “What else you got?” he growled. “It is Chicago, boy, my constituents wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  “Are you shitting me, Ryan?” No longer cowed by the mayor’s years of power in office, Julian laughed in the man’s face. “Along with the black market organs Parker puts into his wealthy patients, the two of you had full knowledge about? Gold mine,” he sang.

  “You’ve got nothing!” the mayor spat, red-faced.

  “Don’t I?” He said, curling his lip in disgust. “My guys didn’t recover any of the evidence the transporter blackmailed Parker with.”

  “But you said….” Parker stuttered, a lot less arrogant than moments before. “You lied!”

  “Yep, everyone will figure out why you really married your wife, Parker.” He poked at him. “Now if you were me, would you give up everything? Low man on the totem pole, right?” The prick had the good sense to wince at the words Julian threw back in his face. “Besides, I’ve managed to keep track of every missing persons’ file and every case that could point the finger at any one of us. This type of scandal could put a blight on our already corrupt city,” he said, looking at his boss. “I hope you didn’t give my Top Cop position away, Mayor. It will be damn embarrassing when you have to take it back. In one week, the job is mine, and by the next election cycle, you will be stepping down and endorsing me for mayor of Chicago.” Julian gave the men who had been nothing but pains in his ass for the last year a genuine smile.

  “And as for you, Parker, get ready to shine my shoes or go straight to jail. Take your pick.” He faced the main source of his contempt with sadistic pleasure. “Enjoy your game, gentlemen.”

  Julian plucked a cigar from the table and left them to ponder the fate The physical leverage he needed may not have been in his hand, but as long as Jackson Thornbird didn’t have it, then it would be smooth sailing from here on out.

  ***

  Julian wanted to celebrate, but first he had to get rid of his son. The crowd cheered for the hitter, Gordon Beckham. A hope and a prayer.

  Playoffs were one thing; the Series was another animal all together. He stepped in the Cellular Stadium bleacher section and snapped his fingers for his son.

  “Let’s go.” He had a hell of a time not knocking a knot off the boy’s head. Earlier he’d taken him to clean out his school locker. The act became a nice and embarrassing ordeal since he’d gotten expelled. He forced him to endure it in front of all of his friends.

  “One more inning and we’re up. Gimme a second, would ya?” the kid whined.

  Somewhat impressed his son still enjoyed something as normal as baseball, he wasn’t swayed by his emotion. The sooner he got the kid out of his eyesight the better. “Now!”

  The same sullen expression of hatred he’d had to look at since the divorce shadowed Logan’s face. He paid it no mind. Instead, the vibration from his phone in his pocket helped him resist the urge to slap the kid smart.

  “You’re lucky.” He reached into his jacket and turned his back on the brat since he didn’t care to witness the elation on his face. “Blanchard,” he barked.

  “We ran into a bit of a problem and got banged up in the process.”

  “Did you take care of it?” He didn’t care how close to death Mortiz and Franco had come; he just wanted Thornbird out of the way, now more than ever.

  “Not yet.”

  “Call me when you do.” Tired of the incompetence, he began to hang up but his detective kept talking.

  “They called in the murder, Captain.” Franco’s grizzled voice came over the line.

  “Did you get a trace?”

  “Burner phone placed around the Nebraska-Iowa border, but that’s all we got.”

  “Sounds like he’s headed to the Szohre home.” He gave his order to kill them all.

  “All parties involved?” Franco asked.

  “Consider this a fire sale—everyone must go.” Julian didn’t care if the missing kid’s bitchy mother ever saw the light of day. She’d spent weeks on the news, stirring up trouble. It was only a matter of time before Thornbird got a whiff of her sob story. A nice shiny bullet in the head would serve her right. “Every single one of them.”

  He hung up the phone and wondered what he should do with Franco and Mortiz once they finally finished with Thornbird. Those two thugs stuck out like a sore thumb, but they were loyal to a fault. He considered his options to keep them around or just get rid of them entirely.

  He headed for the garage. Julian didn’t bother to check to see if the kid followed him. Either the boy wanted a ride home, or he wanted to walk.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Fall was back. Colorado’s heavy snow nearly made Jax forget autumn still existed everywhere else in America. He drove to Altoona, a small town past Des Moines, to meet with Matthew Szohre’s mother, Nancy.

  In an almost knee-jerk reaction, he reached over and laid his hand on top of Lane’s. Quiet, she had said very little all morning. The tense and frightened look hadn’t left her eyes since last night, and he couldn’t help but be worried. He pulled the truck into guest parking of the youth shelter where Matthew Szohre’s mother worked.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, helpless in his ability to console her. Their run from the law had taken a toll on Lane, and he felt responsible.

  “Getting there.” She tucked a slip of hair from her ponytail behind her ear. Caught up by her innocence, he admired the fresh face looking back at him.

  He took solace in her honesty and moved in to kiss her. Strawberry gloss lingered on the tip of his tongue from the taste of her mouth. He pulled away from her pouty lips reluctantly and asked, “Got your gun?”

  He rested his forehead to hers. He wished they had come together under better circumstances.

  “Uh huh,” she said.

  Tired all the way down to his bones but eager for answers, he gave her one last kiss before they got out of the truck. “Mrs. Szohre wanted to meet us after lunchtime.”

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  They headed toward the plain brick building. Since there were no decorations outside for Halloween or a playground, he couldn’t say for sure if it was a school or not.

  “Jackson Thornbird.” A woman waited for them at the front door. She had wild, brown hair with a stern expression that appeared permanently etched on her face. A modern day nun. Deep sadness was his next impression of her. Shivers ran up his spine at the memories she conjured from his childhood, hard rulers and even harder glares. He’d never gotten out of line to see if they would test the thickness of the wood across his knuckles.

  “Principal Szohre.” He shook the woman’s hand. Dressed in all black, her curly hair framed her face. It helped her to preserve a youthful look.

  “Please, call me Nancy.” She took Lane’s hand before leading them into the building.

  They passed by several small rooms that were decorated with different teaching aids for kids.

  “We have quite a number of autistic children whose parents can’t afford to help them,” she began to explain without being prompted. “And the rest of our student body is at-risk youth.”

  “Wow, all under the same roof?” she asked. “Must be difficult.”

  “At first, but with the right training, the troubled youth are very helpful with the special needs children.”

  “Where are the kids?” he asked. The place was curiously silent.

  “Free period. They’re either painting or making music. We allow the time after lunch to get in touch with themselves in a constructive manner.”

  “Tell me if I’m out of line, but who funds your school?”

  “No, Mr. Thorn
bird, I don’t mind. Private donors contribute. We also use government funding to keep us afloat.”

  Nancy guided them down a hallway. When they entered the principal’s lair, déjà vu washed over him. It was a ubiquitous room that always managed to loom at the end of every school hallway. He did not relish the times he’d spent with the staff in the principal’s office.

  “This is impressive,” he complimented her.

  The beginnings of a smile graced Nancy’s face, but soon fell away before it could be fully actualized. “We’ve put in a lot of hard work. Please.” She flicked her hand toward two seats.

  Children’s paintings covered most of the wall, the rest taken over by books on education and therapy. Nancy took her seat across from them in her office.

  “I’m sorry. Out of sorts today.” Nancy shuffled through the papers on her desk. “You’re here about the winter fundraiser?”

  “No,” he said, tired of being the bearer of bad news. “I’m here about your son. I’m a homicide detective for the Chicago P.D.”

  “Oh!” Hostile, red blotches appeared and ate away at the woman’s olive-colored skin before her face set in a serious frown.

  “I’m on your side,” he assured her. “Recently, I’ve been suspended for looking into cases similar to your son’s. Regardless of my state of employment, I want to find out what happened to Matt.”

  A war played in her eyes, whether to trust him or not. He began to doubt himself, wondering if he had laid all of his cards out too soon.

  As if bracing herself for some kind of blow, Nancy sat back in her seat,. “Did you find something?”

  Most family members hoped shielding themselves from the pain would help lessen it somehow. In his experience, bad news hurt no matter how one got it.

  “Do you recognize this woman?” He pulled up a picture of Parker’s missing employee on his phone and handed it to Nancy.