by David Putnam
I nodded. “What happened two years ago? Where did he go?”
“I thought he’d come back. I did. Still did, until just now, when you sauntered in fat and happy to ruin my life.”
She rocked some more and I waited.
“Two years back, his son, the spittin’ image of Micah, he come drivin’ up in a fire-engine-red car without any warnin’, nothing, not so much as a letter. Old Micah, he never talked about any family. Didn’t know he had any. Said, ‘May, this is my son.’ The boy said something like, ‘Yeah, nice to meet ya,’ or something, and turned back to Micah, and said, ‘Can I talk to you outside?’ Rude little bastard. Maybe twenty, twenty-three, too old to be rude like that.
“Micah, he came back in and said he had ta go, said he’d be back in a couple days. That’s goin’ on two years. Now you tell me he’s not comin’ back. I had a thing for that crotchety old man.”
The weathered skin sagged under her eyes, giving her a hound dog appearance. “I’m real sorry for your loss, May. We’re trying to find his son, and we could use your help.”
“Nothin’ I can do. I’ve had enough jabbering for one day. Now it’s time for you to leave.”
“Are there any of Micah’s things here? Anything with an address on it?”
“He had nothin’ when he got here, and he left with nothin’.”
“We’re looking for you to tell us anything, anything at all that might help us.”
She stopped rocking and looked right at me. “I can tell you that son of his was crazy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Saw it in his eyes. When you’ve lived as many years as I have, you can tell by the eyes.”
“What did he look like? How did he wear his hair? Did he have any tattoos?”
“He had on a pair of nice trousers, the kind you wear with a suit, but he didn’t have on the suit. He wore his white button-down shirt open, no t-shirt underneath, kind of uncouth. He had two tattoos, like you said. One was very odd, that’s why I remember it. A heart with a lot of detail.” She pointed to her chest over her own heart. “Only in the center, colored real bright, he had a little yellow light, and inside that was a lump of scar tissue. Right below, scrolled in nice letters, was the name ‘Bella.’”
The wound in his chest, the place his mother had shot him. “And the second tattoo?”
“Big bold black letters across his stomach.”
“What did it say?”
“Couldn’t tell, his shirt flapped this way and that. And, to tell you the truth, I didn’t really care. The look on my Micah’s face…my Micah was hurting inside just looking at the boy. And that’s not right. That’s not right, I tell you. Not for a father to act that way toward his son.”
Back outside of the dark interior, sunlight blinded me for a moment. Mack leaned on the T-Bird’s fender, his arms crossed. “The old bag give up anything useful?”
“Not a thing.”
“That phone call was from Chief Wicks. She wants us back ASAP. They just got a ransom call.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Headed toward Montclair, I put the car seat all the way back and closed my eyes. “The ransom call come from Jonas?”
“Don’t know. No way to tell for sure.”
“So we don’t know if Jonas has help?”
“The call came in on the hotline. Wicks played it for me.”
“And?”
“The person was all over the place, started off low and concise and worked up to manic and screaming at the end. Said, among other things, that he wants an even million. He said, ‘Three hundred thousand a piece will do it, just make it an even million.’”
I sat up.
Mack said, “Yep, sounds like he’s grabbed another kid, one we don’t know about. A kid some parent hasn’t reported yet.”
“Three of them—those poor children,” I said.
“Bruno?”
I looked at him. “Yeah.”
“The FBI just came into it. They’re taking over the investigation. We’re on our way to talk to Wicks. She can’t run cover for you with the Feds crawling all over the place. She’s scared for you. She thinks you should head south where you belong. She thinks this was a mistake.”
“What do you think?”
He shrugged, didn’t take his eyes off the road. “You do have more skin in the game than anyone else, and for no real reason.”
If he didn’t understand, I wouldn’t be able to explain it to him. “She get anything on the rental car?”
“Did you hear what I just said? The Feds are in this now. It’s a different set of rules, all of them going against you.”
“Yeah, yeah, did they get anything on the car?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
I nodded and went back to mulling over the new information. Something niggled in the back of my mind. I’d read everything in the file on Micah and Jonas, read the crime reports, the forensic reports on the kidnappings, but I had purposely been avoiding the children’s profiles. I didn’t want to put a face to them. I didn’t want to make their lives any more real than they already were. I put my fingers on the tab marked “Elena Cortez” and knew what I would find before I flipped to her section. “What about Jonas’ mother Bella?”
“She’s in prison doing life times two. You think maybe Jonas went to visit her? Maybe he told her about his plans to snatch these kids? That’s a long shot, but maybe.”
I muttered, more to myself than to Mack, “Not unless he has a fake ID. Felons aren’t allowed to visit.” I continued to pinch the tab for Elena, too hard, not wanting to turn to the pages. Bella had shot herself in the chest, just as she had Jonas, with a .22, a small-caliber pistol that deflected off her breastbone. Like Jonas, she had come close to dying, but survived. Mack dialed his phone as he drove, got Wicks back on the line. “Hey, it’s me again,” Mack said. “You might have someone go visit Bella Mabry in the joint to check and see if Jonas came to see her.”
The rest of their conversation faded into the background of the passing cars, the miles of salt cedar that lined the freeway on the south side, and the rolling sand dunes. I flipped the tab and read.
Eight-year-old Elena was a foster child named Ellen Sims before adoption to the Cortez family, who legally changed her name. The Cortez family became the second family to adopt her. The first adoptive parent, Martin McGraw, molested her.
My stomach rolled and twisted in a knot. Who could this helpless little girl trust? Now, heaped upon poor Ellen’s trials—add kidnapped by a psychopath. She’d only been with the Cortez family a short time after the adoption was finalized before Jonas had grabbed her.
I flipped over to “Sandy Williams” for further confirmation. Sandy’s life did not read much better. Sandy Collins came to the Williams family only six months prior. Sandy, only seven, testified against her father, who had killed her mother with a knife, all but beheading the mother right in front of her. After the horrific incident, Sandy never spoke again. Her testimony in court relied on two flash cards, one “yes” and one “no.” A mute unable to, if the opportunity presented itself while kidnapped, ask anyone for help.
I looked at the pictures of the little girls and knew I was right. “Tell Wicks it’s a little boy. She should be looking for a missing little boy, not another girl.”
“She wants to know how you know that?”
“Tell her she can raise the money for the exchange, but it’s not about the money. He doesn’t intend to give the kids back. He’s going to take the money and run.”
Mack looked back at the road and said to Wicks into the cell, “What? You’re kidding. All right. All right. We’re about thirty minutes out.”
“Right.”
He hung up, reached under the dash, and switched on the lights and siren. He moved over into the emergency lane and passed cars, the T-Bird doing 100 with little room between the K-rail.
Age had mellowed and smoothed off my rough edges. This reckless maneuver scared the hell out of me. I c
ouldn’t read the file anymore. I pushed my imaginary brake into the floor and held on to the door and dash. Over the loud din, I asked, “What’s changed? What’s happened?”
Mack kept both hands on the wheel, his eyes straight ahead, “The FBI just walked into the incident command center and took over, relieved Wicks of command and control.”
“Why is that so bad? They have the resources and the manpower to put the boots on the ground, which is what this investigation needs.”
“The Feebies have been playing hide-and-seek with their information.”
“Nothing new with that. What do they have? Why are we hauling ass?”
“They’ve got an eye on Jonas Mabry. They’re following him right now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I raised my voice over the siren, “You know, if the FBI grabs Jonas and he doesn’t tell them where the kids are, they don’t have the ability to compel him to talk, not with a triple kidnap charge hanging over his head. He’s got nothing to lose.”
Mack leaned forward a little, his eyes intent on the task at hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know. What do you want me to do about it?”
“I’m just thinking out loud.”
“All they can offer Jonas is a lighter sentence on the three counts of kidnapping, but if we never find the kids, we don’t have the kidnapping to offer the lower sentences on. He keeps his mouth shut, he walks.”
“And unless Jonas has someone helping him, the kids will wither and die wherever they are. Mack, those kids are all alone with no one—”
“I know, I know. You got any ideas?”
“I do.”
“What? Spill it, because I got nothing.” The freeway opened up for several miles ahead, and he pulled into the number one lane closest to the center divider. I breathed a little easier. He shut down the siren and kept the red light to the front, kept the speed at 100.
“There’s really only one option,” I said.
He took his eyes off the road for a long, dangerous second and looked at me. He jerked his head back and shook it from side to side. “You’re crazier than a shithouse mouse, you know that?”
“There’s no other option.”
His Adam’s apple rose up and fell as he swallowed hard. “Okay, I’m with you, but we leave Wicks out of it. We do this, just you and me.”
“I agree.”
We rode in silence. “Couple of BMFs doing what’s right?” he asked.
I understood what he said, a way of justifying our actions, ones that ventured far beyond where the Violent Crimes Team used to work in the gray area. We intended going deep into the black, the dark on the other side of the law, and, if caught, neither of us would see daylight the rest of our days. We used to have a saying for when crooks took this path: running head-on into “the other side of forever.”
Mack said, “First, we’ll need to stop at the Valley Suites and pick up a couple FBI radios.”
I nodded as my mind tried to ferret out an option where I didn’t have to involve Mack. I needed a diversion, a good one. I couldn’t wait for an opportunity to pop up. I had to create my own.
“Talk to me, Bruno, what are you thinking? I know what you’re thinking—you’re thinking of leaving me holding my dick in my hand and doing this thing on your own.”
When you worked the same job using the same tactics for so long, reading a partner’s mind came natural. “Tell me about Karl Drago,” I said.
Up ahead in the fast lane, we quickly approached a slower-moving black BMW. Mack changed lanes without signaling, passed the BMW, and changed back to the fast lane. Mack asked, “What? Who?”
“Karl Drago, the guy—”
“I know Karl Drago. He’s the guy we were set up on when the kidnappings went down and I got pulled off. He’s got nothing to do with this.”
I needed Mack thinking in a different direction, a diversion, however minor. And maybe one we could rally into a larger one later on. I said, “The FBI’s going to be spread thin working a mobile surveillance on Jonas, hunting for that third kid, and trying to keep an eye on Karl Drago. They’ll put every available agent out in the field.”
“I agree,” he said, “but how does that help us?”
“We might be able to use Karl Drago as a diversion, to pull away manpower.”
Mack slowly nodded as he wrapped his mind around a tactic with little validity. “All right, but I don’t know how we’d use him.”
“I don’t either, until I have more information.”
“Drago did two tours in the California prison system for murder. Did twenty-five to life on both. This was before ‘three strikes’ came in. He did twelve-and-a-half years, got out on parole, killed again, and got another twenty-five to life. Did another twelve and a half years, and just now got out again. The second victim killed wasn’t a taxpayer. The only reason we’re on him twenty-four seven is because if he kills a third time, it’s going to make a lot of people look like buffoons.”
“Why are the Feds involved if this is a straight murder and nothing else? The state has jurisdiction.”
Mack smiled, still watching the road. “Twenty-five years ago, before every business on the street put in surveillance cameras, Drago and his crew pulled an armored car heist where Drago walked up behind an armored car guard named Willy Frakes, who was unloading plastic-wrapped blocks of currency. Right out in the open, in front of a bank, stuck a gun to his head, killed him, and took the money. No witnesses. You believe it? No one saw him do it. You can’t get luckier than that.
“Someone called in an anonymous tip and the cops picked up Drago. The prosecution didn’t have any witnesses and only a little circumstantial evidence. Drago only had a public defender, who talked him into taking a lesser charge on a plea for killing the guard. When he got out twelve years later, the speculation is that he killed the guy who ratted him out on the guard killing, a guy named Stanley Grandville, who was also thought to be in on the heist, but never proven. Grandville being in on the heist was just a working theory for motivation in the murder. Drago killed him for being a rat and went in again for another twelve.”
I finished it for him. “The money was federally insured, which brings in the Feds.”
“Exactly. We follow him long enough, he’ll take us to the rest of his crew and violate his parole before he kills someone else.”
My phone rang. Marie. I’d forgotten to call Marie. “Hello, babe.” I missed her something fierce.
“Bruno, are you okay? You didn’t call when you were supposed to.”
“Everything’s good. How are the kids? How’s Dad?”
“Kids are great. They miss Wally, of course. I miss Wally.”
“And Dad?”
She paused, time hanging in a large fat bubble. “He’s…” Her voice cracked a little. “He’s got stomach cancer.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mom came down with cancer while I attended elementary school. Marie had warned me before I left she thought Dad might be sick. I’d hung too much hope on the might part. The memory of Mom forever remained an open emotional sore. And now Dad.
In the front seat of the speeding car, thousands of miles away, I was unable to help him, to console him, tell him I was there for him. All of a sudden, I found it difficult to breathe. I needed to get back as soon as possible.
“I’m sorry, Bruno. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“They’re starting his treatment tomorrow, a consultation with the surgeon. Surgery and then chemo. As a last resort, radiation.”
I closed my eyes tight and whispered, “How bad?”
Another long pause. “I did some research. His age is a big factor. It works against him. But he is in great shape physically, which is in his favor.”
“Babe, please.”
“Fifty-fifty. Bruno, I’m sorry, fifty-fifty.”
I slid down in the seat and laid my head against the door’s window. Marie would sugarcoat it for me, which meant the odds would be closer to sixty-forty,
or worse.
“They have great docs here and top-notch hospitals. He’s got a good chance.”
At best, a good chance meant a coin toss.
“Have you found the kids?” she asked. She didn’t want to load me up with any more pressure and asked an indirect question to find out when I was coming home. For the same reason she didn’t want to mention Jonas Mabry’s name.
“No.” Now the conflict to stay or head home pulled harder than ever.
“Are you close?” Her voice broke; she couldn’t hold her emotions together any longer. She needed me.
“Not really. Well, maybe.”
Her voice came back strong. I visualized her posture going straight, her eyes narrowing as the need to nurture took over. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
“I have the case file, and I think I’ve figured out Jonas. I know what he’s doing. The three kids—”
She asked, “Three? There are three taken now?”
“That’s right, and he’s asked for money. A million dollars. I think after he gets the money, he plans to hurt them.” I looked at Mack who stared at me, back and forth from the road.
“Why? How did you figure that out?”
I closed my eyes. “Because I think they’re replacements for him and his sisters, the sisters his mother killed twenty years ago.” The word “killed” caught in my throat like a sideways chicken bone. I half-whispered the rest. “Jonas never thought his mother should’ve gone to prison and blames me. In some screwed-up, psychotic way, he intends on re-creating the house that bled, to finish what his mother started and, at the same time, punish me for intervening. He’ll kill Elena, Sandy, and the third child to teach me a lesson for intervening and ruining his mother’s life and, in turn, allowing him—forcing him—to continue to live in a world he wanted nothing to do with. A life without his mother and two sisters.”
“Oh, Bruno, are you okay? Really, are you okay? Geez, that’s absolutely awful. You okay, Bruno?”
