by Diane Capri
“Does he drink much?”
Max laughed and leaned forward, peering into Hallman’s eyes. “Did you really know him at all at Humboldt?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday, November 27
5:15 p.m.
Denver, Colorado
Jess arrived at Denver Broadcasting’s offices a few minutes early. A receptionist called an assistant who led her to the Denver PM studio. The host’s name, Mia Luna, was written in splashy script across the walls.
She was familiar with the show. Denver PM aired daily at 5:30 p.m. Content was local light news to carry into the local hard news show that ran immediately before the network news. After that, the nightly game shows kicked off prime time. Because of its feel-good content, Denver PM was more popular than anything newsy the local station offered.
This close to airtime, the set was abuzz with people. Camera operators set up for their shots while rolling cameras across the area in front of the elevated staging on set. A woman rushed back and forth, checking cables until a monitor behind the stage jumped to life. On the left of the stage, a young woman stood in front of a giant blue wall, waving her arms and gesturing to imaginary places that would soon be advised about the weather forecast.
Other staff members scurried around the stage preparing to air.
The assistant led Jess toward the set, reeling off instructions as she went. “You’ll enter from the left, cross in front of the armchairs and take the one on the left. Mia will greet you. Say something like ‘Pleasure to be here,’ just to get the ball rolling. Aim for a conversation with Mia, try not to look at the camera.” The assistant checked a clipboard. “You’ll be second. After the segment on the new China trade deal.”
“We’re making a change to the lineup,” a woman said.
Jess turned to see Mia striding across the room, somehow managing to clear each of the cables snaking across the floor without so much as glancing in their direction.
She’d met Mia earlier in the year at a charity event race. Jess ran hard and came in fourth. Mia was waiting for her at the finish, barely breathing hard. Mia was all muscle. Not the bulging sort like a bodybuilder, but the long, lean kind that produced endurance.
Mia stepped onto the stage just as a man with a handful of papers walked over. The executive producer, Jess guessed.
Mia said, “We need to start with positive human interest. All the political topics will get covered later. There’s no local impact to the trade deal story yet, anyway.”
She turned to Jess and held her hand out. “Good to see you again, Jess.”
“We have the introduction and all the graphics laid out already, Mia,” the executive producer said.
Mia looked at her watch. “Seven minutes. The team can change it easily.”
He stuffed his papers under his arm and walked away grumbling.
“You don’t have to change things for me,” Jess said. “I can wait.”
Mia smiled. “Don’t worry. He complains, but he’s the best. Besides, he knows I’m right. He’ll have it done in half the time. Your story is something people will feel good about. That’s what we do here.”
Jess shrugged.
A young woman attached Jess’s microphone to her lapel.
“We’ve been working with the police,” Mia said as the woman threaded a cable through the back of Jess’s clothes. “Sharing what CCTV footage we could collect on your car chase.” She grinned, “You’d make a good street racer.”
“I haven’t seen any of the footage.”
“We even have your roll down the slope and the inhaler. We got lucky with that one. A taxi driver had a dash cam pointed in your direction.” Mia paused and frowned. “I’m thinking the last time we met you were still searching for your son.”
Jess offered a flat smile, surprised Mia had remembered.
“Any news?” Mia asked.
Jess shook her head.
“One minute,” the executive producer called out.
The crew left the set, shrinking into the shadows around the studio.
Mia pointed Jess to the armchairs.
“Thirty seconds,” the executive producer said.
Mia looked at Jess and arched her eyebrows. “Our audience numbers are in the millions. Peter, right?”
Jess frowned. “My son? Yes.”
“We’ll mention him. Maybe someone knows something.”
Jess never missed a chance to ask for help from the public to find Peter. “That would be great. Thank you.”
“Thirty seconds.” Mia winked at Jess, “I can shave that off politics any day. Do you have a photo?”
Jess fished out her phone, found the age-progressed photo of Peter and offered it to Mia who handed it to the executive producer. “Get this ready to show at the end of our interview.”
“Okay. Live in ten,” he replied.
A large timer above a camera counted down.
Mia straightened her back and assumed a calm, wide-eyed smile.
The counter reached zero, and Mia’s smile broadened. “Good evening, and welcome to Denver PM. With us tonight is Jessica Kimball, Taboo Magazine’s star reporter. Jess interrupted a carjacking this morning, almost certainly saving the life of the hostage.”
Jess handled Mia’s questions, modestly accepting her praise, and discussing the good work done every day by her coworkers at Taboo. She even had a chance to put in a plug for Carter Pierce.
In the last thirty seconds, Mia pivoted to Peter, explaining that he was missing and showing the photo of a blond-haired, brown-eyed fifteen-year-old. She gave Jess the chance to announce her website and her toll-free number for tips. The website and the tip line were added to the crawl across the bottom of the screen.
Finally, Mia implored anyone with information about Peter to come forward and reunite Peter with his mother for Christmas. Then she moved to politics.
Jess remained in her armchair until the commercial break, listening to the next segment. Mia was right. The trade deal was political mumbo-jumbo that no one would want to dwell on very long. Maybe Mia’s audience would be more interested in finding Peter. She hoped.
CHAPTER NINE
Monday, November 27
5:30 p.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Hallman walked south through the city. Fine drizzle came and went while the sky remained resolutely gray. He zipped his jacket up hard against his neck and buried his hands in his pockets.
The streets changed as he worked south. More empty industrial units here. Doorways gathered trash. Colorful shop windows farther north were replaced by seedy bars.
He passed a sign that vandals had broken in two pieces. The remaining section announced he was entering “Burli.”
At a gas station, he asked a girl behind a wire mesh for directions to Ged’s Place, but she just shrugged.
He walked toward a cluster of bars and strip joints he’d visited before he went to prison. The places were still there, but he saw no Ged’s, and no Compton Street.
A truck delivering beer to one of the bars was parked near the exit. One man stayed with the truck while two others hefted metal barrels onto a dolly and wheeled them inside.
Hallman removed his hands from his pockets and smiled as he approached the guy at the truck to ask for directions.
The driver kept the window up, probably to trap the heat inside. But he knew Ged’s and gave directions through the glass. Hallman guessed he probably wanted to get rid of the stranger, which was fine by him.
He reached Ged’s Place shortly afterward. It was located in a strip mall with only one other occupied store, a charity consignment shop.
Inside, Ged’s Place was dark but warm enough. Hallman’s boots stuck to the carpet as he crossed from the door to the bar. Two men sat at one of the tables, and a woman was perched at the end of the counter. He didn’t see Gotting anywhere.
The bartender ambled in his direction and theatrically flipped a coaster on the bar. “What’re you having?”
The bartender sneered. “We serve beer and liquor. We aren’t the yellow pages.”
Hallman checked to be sure he wasn’t attracting attention. “Earle and I were at Humboldt together. I just got out.”
The bartender shrugged. “Still don’t know him.”
“How much is it worth?” the woman at the end of the counter asked.
Hallman shook his head. “I just got out. No money. I can come back later. I know he drinks here.”
The bartender grunted and walked off.
The woman pulled an unhappy face before she spoke. “Palm Tree Court. Apartment 225.” She frowned. “Or 227. Definitely on the upstairs floor. At the back. Got a hole kicked in the door.”
Hallman didn’t ask how she knew, but he figured her for a junkie, like Gotting. He thanked her and left.
CHAPTER TEN
Monday, November 27
6:10 p.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Hallman had seen the Palm Tree Court apartments earlier while he looked for Ged’s Place. It took him less than two minutes to find them again. The parking lot boasted few vehicles with lower than triple-digit mileage on the odometer. Several cars were propped up on blocks.
Three-story concrete block buildings that had seen better days housed dull brown apartments. The weathered wooden steps leading to the upper floors had long ago lost all trace of color. The handrail flexed as his weight landed on the treads.
A large square of plywood was screwed over the lower portion of the door to apartment 227, behind which was the hole the woman had mentioned, he figured.
He looked for a doorbell. Finding none, he knocked and waited.
Five seconds later, he knocked again and placed his ear to the door. He heard the murmur of a radio or television. He hammered on the door with the flat of his fist.
The door opened.
Earle Gotting’s haggard face stared at him. He leaned slightly to the left. Maybe because of his bad leg or because he was drunk or high or all three.
“What do you want?” Gotting said.
“Talk to you.”
“Not interested.” Gotting pushed the door toward the frame.
Hallman stuck his foot in the way and shoved the door open again.
Gotting shifted his weight. “Do I know you?”
Hallman stepped forward. He used his forearm to push Gotting backward into the room.
Gotting shoved Hallman’s forearm away. “Get off me.”
Hallman stepped sideways and closed the door. “We were at Humboldt together.”
“Yeah? What of it? Lotta guys at Humboldt.” Gotting scowled.
In the dimly lit room, Gotting looked even worse. Smelled worse, too. Gotting might not have showered within the past six months, he smelled that bad. His home wasn’t much better. The odor of trash and dirty dishes and stale marijuana smoke hung in the air. And something else that smelled of decaying flesh. Hallman glanced around for dead rodents, but only saw a couple of live mice scurry away from a half-eaten hamburger bun.
“You remember me,” Hallman said. “You got out six months ago. I got out today.”
Gotting shook his head. “I ain’t taking you in if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not looking to crash. And if I was, I wouldn’t stay in this pigsty. I want to talk to you. About what you told me. When we were at Humboldt.”
Gotting leaned on the door handle. “I ain’t told you nothing. Get out.”
“It’s important. What you said.”
Gotting frowned. “What’d I say?”
Hallman cocked his head and took a closer look at Gotting. He was struggling to pay attention and getting confused. Did he have brain damage? Definitely possible, given the various substances he seemed to be ingesting.
“Let’s talk about it.” Hallman steered Gotting toward a chair in the filthy living room. He instead limped fluidly around a coffee table that had a lamp on it and poured himself onto the sofa. Hallman sat on a chair across from Gotting.
The apartment was a studio with the kitchen behind a counter. An open door led to the bedroom and bathroom. Gotting was far from a neat freak. Like the living room, every inch of the kitchen was covered in dirty dishes, fast food wrappers, empty bottles, and overflowing ashtrays. The mixture was revolting.
Hallman ignored it all and concentrated on Gotting. “You told me about a baby you took.”
Gotting laughed and shook his head. “Nah. No, no. I didn’t take no baby.”
“You told me.”
“Nah.”
“The mom’s a celebrity now.”
Gotting inched backward, drawing his bad leg with him.
Hallman nodded toward Gotting’s leg. “I didn’t do that to you.”
“You gotta go.”
Hallman didn’t move. “I want to know about the baby. Tell me, and I’ll go.”
Gotting shook his head.
Hallman pushed Gotting back into the sofa.
Gotting breathed out. His shoulders relaxed.
Hallman leaped forward, grabbing the lamp from the coffee table and whipping the electrical cord over Gotting’s head.
Gotting reacted too late. The cord was already around his neck.
Hallman snugged up his garrote. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I need to know.”
Gotting’s eyes widened along with his big, black pupils. The effects of whatever drug he had taken diminished by the flood of adrenaline building in his bloodstream.
“Whose baby was it?”
Gotting gagged.
Hallman tightened the cord. “Whose baby?”
Gotting’s eyes bulged.
“Whose?”
Gotting pulled back, lying flat on the couch.
Hallman put his knee on Gotting’s scrawny chest. “Tell me.”
Gotting’s face turned bright red. Hallman relaxed the tension on the cord. “Tell me.”
“Jess… Jess Kimball,” Gotting said between snatched breaths. “But she ain’t no big celebrity, Just a reporter. I made out like she was big. Back inside. Boasting. That’s all. She ain’t rich.”
Jess Kimball. He had a name. How much more could he squeeze out of this miserable cretin? Hallman forced his smile into a frown. He growled, “Good enough.”
Gotting gasped. “Why are you doing this?”
“Money.” Hallman relaxed the cord further.
Gotting stared. “How you going to get money out of her? She has a reward. She ain’t rich.”
Hallman shook his head. This guy was a waste of good air. It would be easy enough to strangle him and be done with it.
Gotting stared. “You’re going to turn me over to the cops.”
Hallman snorted. “No, I ain’t. Not unless you give me a reason to.”
Gotting clawed at the cord. “Then you should cut me in. I took the kid. By rights—”
“Tell me how you did it. How did you take the kid?”
Gotting took a deep breath. “A baby. She left him. Went to get laundry in the basement of her apartment building.”
“You were watching her.”
“Well, duh.” Gotting pried the cord another half inch from his tender flesh. “Watched her for a couple of weeks. Single mom. No help. Just her and him. It was an easy take.”
“What was she wearing?”
Gotting scowled. “What are you—”
Hallman jerked the cord tighter.
Gotting choked. “Jeans. T-shirt. I don’t—”
“What sort of T-shirt?”
“It… I don’t…” He frowned. “Like the big lips with the tongue thing.”
“What tongue thing?”
Gotting pulled on the cord. “The…the…”
“Rolling Stones?”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s it.”
He was too stupid to lie. Which meant Hallman had learned another usable piece of information. “You’re sure?”
“Y
eah. She wore it all the time. Like it was the only one she owned or something.”
Gotting was too weak to fight back, but was he telling the truth? Hallman narrowed his eyes. Gotting’s face was screwed up. The lack of oxygen and the compression on his throat was getting to him. The drugs and alcohol swimming in his system were a good thing. He was too far from reality to make up convincing lies.
Hallman needed just one more thing, and he’d be good to go. “Where is the kid now?”
Gotting screwed up his face in disbelief. “How the hell would I know?”
Hallman tightened the cord. “I need to find him.”
“It’s been years—” Gotting choked again.
“Blackmail won’t work without the kid.” Hallman leaned more weight on his knee, pushing the oxygen from Gotting’s lungs. “Where is he?”
Hallman waited, watching Gotting’s eyes bulge. A cold chill ran through his blood. There was one giant, obvious, plan-destroying answer to his question. He tightened the cord. “Did you kill the baby?”
Gotting found some strength somewhere. He shoved against Hallman’s weight. “You think I’m stupid? I’m no baby killer. I gave him to a guy.”
“Sold him, you mean.”
Gotting dug his fingers into his neck and strained against the cord. “A fence. I gave him to a fence.”
A fence? Whoever heard of fencing babies? “Who’d you sell him to?”
Gotting gagged. His eyes bulged. He shook his head.
Hallman tightened the cord another notch.
Gotting thrashed his legs. He squirmed and bucked.
Hallman kept his weight on Gotting’s chest, not enough to crush his fragile ribs, but forcing him down into the sofa’s sagging cushions. “Who!”
“N… Norell. Zander Norell.”
“You’re lying.”
Gotting’s legs kept moving. He gagged as he shook his head. He gasped, “No. No. Not lying. Norell. Fenced the kids I took.”
Hallman raised his eyebrows, feeling like he’d actually won the lotto all of a sudden. More than one kid meant more than one potential blackmail opportunity, didn’t it?
