Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

  Gotting approached Ammerson Belk’s home. Belk was a partner at the Somersall-McCree law firm downtown. A mid-size firm with a long history. Solid. Dependable. Plodding.

  They’d had a good run. Gotting found the babies, and Belk turned them into cash. Private adoption, he called it. Gotting didn’t care. All he wanted was the money.

  He’d been there a few months earlier. Shortly after he was released from prison. Told them he figured his silence had earned him something. He had plenty of dirt on Belk and the law firm, and he’d kept it to himself. He’d protected Belk and Norell, too. Both of those bums had been walking around while he was inside. He’d figured with the right persuasion they’d be grateful, and he’d been right. Within a week they’d handed him the keys to his new Audi.

  Belk’s house was located on Wisteria Drive. A single story with a detached garage set toward the back of the lot ringed with a low, white picket fence.

  The house was brick construction painted a light color unidentifiable in the night. Dark green decorative shutters adorned the windows, and a large portico covered the porch and the front door. Just the kind of house their profitable private adoption business would have bought. And it probably had.

  Gotting parked by the garage, away from the glare of the streetlights. He rummaged in the glove box and found his revolver, a Rohm RG-14.

  He’d picked it up in a bar a few months ago for thirty bucks. It was the same type of gun that had been used to shoot Ronald Reagan. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad one, but the seller had made it sound interesting. The gun was small and easily concealed. He’d fired it once at a range where he again confirmed he was no marksman.

  He didn’t intend to shoot the gun. He didn’t expect he’d have to. Belk wasn’t that brave. If he had been, he’d have stolen the babies himself. He wouldn’t have needed Gotting at all. As a persuasive tool, though, there was none better than a loaded gun.

  A single light hung over a side door with a frosted glass pane. He put his ear to the door and pushed the doorbell. A muffled tune rang inside the house.

  He stepped back and waited.

  A distorted shadow of the portly Belk appeared behind the frosted glass and stopped.

  Gotting knew he was checking a small monitor that showed views from a half-dozen cameras dotted around the outside of the house. Gotting looked up and smiled at one of the cameras mounted on the overhang.

  Belk unlocked the door and opened it the width allowed by the chain that held it in place.

  Gotting smiled. “Hello, Ammerson.”

  Belk’s fleshy face peered through the gap between the door and the frame. “What do you want?”

  “Can I come inside?”

  “No.”

  “I need some help.”

  “I paid you all I owed you. And more.”

  Gotting nodded. “I know. The car is nice. But it’s not about the car.”

  “Then what?”

  Gotting looked behind him. The low fence did nothing to shield him from the neighbor’s view.

  “You really want to talk about it out here?”

  Belk scowled a moment. He slid back the chain. “Very well.”

  Gotting stepped into a laundry room and closed the door.

  “You know you’re on camera,” Belk had already begun to sweat.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. And after I’m gone, you better delete it.”

  “Get on with it.” He dabbed his forehead with his sleeve.

  Gotting cleared his throat. “Thirteen or fourteen years ago, I brought you a kid. Peter Kimball.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I need to know where he is.”

  Belk breathed in and out with a loud hiss.

  “I need to know. Now.”

  Belk shook his head. “First of all, you never brought me any kid—”

  “Don’t try to go all legal on me here.” Gotting shrugged. “Same as always, Zander Norell did. After I brought the kid to him. No difference.”

  Belk snorted. “And secondly, I never knew the names.”

  Gotting sneered. “Yeah, right.”

  Belk pressed his lips into a thin line before he spoke. “What’s this about? You know you can’t blackmail me.”

  “I don’t want to blackmail you. I want to blackmail Kimball.”

  “The kid?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Gotting snapped. “The mother.”

  “Are you crazy?” Belk stared. “Why are you doing this now? After thirteen years?”

  In truth, the question still nagged him. But Kimball was his. He’d taken the kid. He’d found her and scoped her out. He’d hooked a credit card behind the latch to break into her apartment. He’d traveled from Denver to Kansas City with a crying baby wedged on the floor in the rear of his car.

  He was the one who took all the risks.

  Him.

  Not Hallman or Metcalfe. Not Norell, and certainly not some dumb-ass big city lawyer.

  If there was any money to be made from Kimball, it was his money. Simple as that.

  “That’s none of your concern,” he finally pointed out.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” Belk said. “I didn’t have the names, so I don’t—”

  “It was thirteen years ago, not thirty. You can find it. You don’t need the name.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  Gotting pulled out his revolver. “It’s you who doesn’t understand.”

  Belk held pudgy hands with thick fingers up in front of him and stepped back. “Now you don’t have to—”

  “Just find out where he is. Peter Kimball. Thirteen years ago. Tell me, and I’m gone.”

  Belk breathed out, the air hissing between his teeth.

  Gotting brandished the revolver. “From this distance, I can’t possibly miss.”

  “All right.” Belk turned around. “I’ll find out.”

  Gotting lowered his revolver and followed Belk through the kitchen into a study.

  Belk pulled an aging laptop from the bottom drawer of his desk and worked the keyboard. A minute later he scribbled an address on a sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk.

  Gotting picked it up. The city was nearby. “Higgins?” he said.

  Belk nodded. “Now will you leave?”

  Gotting stared at the address and the old laptop. “Is this where he lives now? Or where the parents lived when you sold the baby?”

  “I didn’t sell him, I arranged for his private adoption. There’s a difference.”

  Gotting pointed the revolver at Belk again. It wasn’t an empty threat. At this point, Gotting would have gladly shot his kneecap off.

  Belk sighed. “It was their address at the time. I don’t keep up with these people. No reason to.”

  “But you work for some fancy legal outfit. You can find him. I know.”

  “Maybe. Tomorrow. When I get to the office.”

  “You set him up with a Social Security number and everything. You can find him now.” He shook the gun. “Now.”

  Belk sighed and turned back to the laptop. He typed quickly for a few moments and waited for the ancient machine to do its work.

  What felt like an hour but was probably no more than a minute or so later, the computer dinged. Belk wrote a Colorado Springs address on the sheet of paper. “That’s where the family lives now.”

  Gotting verified the written address matched the computer screen, folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. He put the revolver away, unplugged the laptop, and tucked it under his arm. “If this works out, we’ll never meet again.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” Belk sputtered as Gotting walked out of the house with his laptop.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Monday, November 27

  11:00 p.m.

  Denver, Colorado

  Morris had cleared the table as Jess stacked the plates in the dishwasher after dinner. They watched a movie together before he left.

  Her apartment seeme
d unnaturally empty without him. She’d noticed that emptiness several times lately, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. For the moment, she moved the worry aside.

  She was tiring fast, but one thing she still had to do was contact Brentwood Stephenson.

  Jess had come to rely on him in a way that she’d never expected to. But she needed his thorough approach now. If the extortion phone call had originated in Kansas City as Morris said, there were two possible states within easy reach. After thirteen years, the people who’d had any connection with Jess’s life when Peter was taken had dispersed all over the country and abroad. It was not farfetched to assume that some would be living in Kansas or Missouri.

  She composed an email outlining the conversation and the circumstances surrounding the phone call and requesting names and addresses of anyone relevant who might be living in those states.

  When she had finished, the computer’s clock said 11:55 p.m. In Baton Rouge, that meant after midnight for Stephenson. No way he would reply tonight, which was fine. She’d had a long day, too.

  She turned off her computer and went to bed, wondering how far the guy would go with his scam. She fell asleep quickly, but not for long. Her ringing phone awakened her at two in the morning.

  Jess pried open one eye at the sound. Her room was dark and the bedclothes warm, and she hoped the blasted phone would stop ringing. It did not.

  She cleared her throat, propped herself up on her elbow, and croaked, “Kimball.”

  “The price has gone up.”

  The same voice she’d heard before removed the sleep from her mind in an instant. “Who is this?”

  “Three million.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Used bills. Not marked. You’ve got forty-eight hours.”

  Jess pressed her lips together. Holding back the torrent of questions and anger building inside her. She needed him to talk. She had to learn what kind of person she was dealing with, what he knew, and whether he really had Peter.

  The silence stretched on. She breathed through her nose, keeping her adrenaline as level as possible under the circumstances.

  “Why should I believe you? Convince me that I’m talking to the right guy,” she said.

  “You’ve been watching too much television.” But after he sighed, he said, “You were wearing a Stones T-shirt.”

  Her skin tingled. No caller had ever said that before. She kept her voice level. “Lots of people have Stones T-shirts.”

  “When I took him.”

  “Took who?”

  There was a long silence before the man spoke. “You know damn well who. Get the money if you want him back.”

  “I’m going to need more than that before I believe you.”

  “You’re going to need three million more. Get it.”

  She felt wired, every muscle taut. “No one just gets three million. I’m a reporter, not a billionaire.”

  “Lean on your glitzy magazine boss. He’s got the cash. No sweat. He’ll come through if he wants to keep Peter alive.”

  Her breath caught. “You have Peter?”

  “You tell Carter Pierce what I said. If he wants your boy to live, he’ll pay.”

  “So, you do have him? I need to be certain.”

  “This will happen quick. Get prepared. Get my money.”

  “I want to hear his voice.” What she heard in her own trembling voice was fear.

  “Why? You think you’d recognize a teenage boy? Not a chance. You lost him as a baby before he began to speak. Just get the money. You’ve got forty-eight hours.”

  “Listen. Even if I can get three million, I need to make travel arrangements. Where are you?”

  He laughed. “What? The police can’t trace a phone call anymore? You get the money, or you’ll never see him again. No one will.”

  “I want to talk to Peter.”

  He hung up.

  Jess leaned back against the headboard, the phone trembling in her shaky hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tuesday, November 28

  2:15 a.m.

  Denver, Colorado

  Jess gathered her composure and dialed Henry. She spoke as soon as he picked up.

  “I just got another call.”

  “I know.” Morris sounded wide awake and focused. “We got lucky. It’s a landline phone located in Kansas City. The police are on their way. Two squad cars, a couple of minutes out.”

  “He’ll be on the move.”

  “They’re doing their best.”

  “He knows the calls are being traced.”

  “Everybody who ever watched TV knows calls are traced.”

  “He wants three million in cash in forty-eight hours.”

  “I heard,” Morris replied. “Price has gone up. There has to be a reason.”

  “Maybe I could find out if I was in Kansas City.”

  “Three million is a lot. No offense, but it’s not like you’ve got that kind of money. Is Pierce likely to find the three million for you?”

  “Maybe.” Jess paused. “Taboo’s struggling, but Carter is worth hundreds of millions. He’s offered before.”

  “Even millionaires don’t generally have three million in cash lying around the house, though.”

  “Well, he mentioned ransom and millions, but he didn’t get specific about how many.”

  Morris thought about that for a full second. “Possible this guy knows about Pierce’s offer to help you?”

  Jess frowned. “Is he someone who works at the magazine, you mean?”

  “Seems plausible. Someone who knows you or knows about you. Doesn’t have to be a close associate.”

  “But it does have to be someone who’s currently in Kansas City if you’re sure the call wasn’t electronically rerouted somehow. I can get a list of employees who’ve been out of the office over the past few days.”

  Morris said, “Something’s changed to push the price up. He’s more desperate now, too. Or he’s trying to move things fast before we find out he’s scamming you.”

  “Henry.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. The adrenaline running through her veins had her strung as tight as the blackmail. “I-I don’t think this one’s a hoax. He knew what T-shirt I was wearing when he took Peter.”

  “That’s a detail that’s been withheld?”

  “I’ve never put that out anywhere. As far as I know, it was never released.”

  “But other people must have seen what you were wearing at the time. Neighbors. The police.”

  She shook her head while she thought things through. “Not likely. I grabbed my coat as soon as I realized Peter was missing. It was raining, and my phone was in the pocket, so I didn’t take my coat off.”

  Morris whistled. “So, this could be the actual guy.”

  “Or he knows the actual guy,” Jess spoke through gritted teeth. “But I don’t think he has Peter. He wouldn’t let me talk to him.”

  “You think he’s just using his knowledge to blackmail you?” There was a buzzing on the line. Morris said, “Hang on. I’m getting a call from Kansas.”

  The phone went silent. Jess pressed the speaker button to keep her hands free while she waited. She wheeled her roll-aboard from her closet. She began tossing clothes and toiletries into the bag. She was half-packed by the time she heard his voice again.

  Morris came back on the phone. “Kansas City police found the phone at a twenty-four- hour convenience store called Convenient 4U. The caller wasn’t there. They’re combing the area and reviewing CCTV, but they don’t sound hopeful.”

  She said, “I’m going to Kansas City,” as she continued packing.

  “I figured. First flight is five a.m. Arrives before eight. I just looked it up. I’ll go with you.”

  Jess threw an extra pair of jeans into her roll-aboard. “What about your work?”

  “We delivered our big case to the DA today. The team can pick up the rest for a while. See you at the airport at four?”

  She paused. “I�
�m bringing my gun. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

  Morris was silent a beat. “I’ll expedite the paperwork. Lock it in a case and be at the airport at three.”

  She looked at her alarm clock. Two-fifteen. Forty-five minutes. She could just make it. “Thanks, Henry.”

  She hung up, dressed, zipped her suitcase, and was on the road in ten.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tuesday, November 28

  2:30 a.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Hallman walked away from Convenient 4U at a measured pace, but as soon as he turned the corner, he broke into a jog. He stayed on the grid-like arrangement of side streets, which made his navigation easier.

  The first priority was to put as much distance between him and the phone. The police had undoubtedly traced the call. He heard no approaching sirens, but they might make a silent approach on a non-violent crime response in a residential neighborhood at this hour.

  Running was a magnet for police attention. He turned another corner. A sedan rolled by, headlights spearing the darkness. He shuffled back against the wall.

  The car moved toward the store but didn’t stop. He moved away at a fast clip.

  A minute later, light glowed over the top of the buildings in front of him. Music and the sound of cars drifted through the air. He entered an alley walking toward the noise and stepped into a bright neon kaleidoscope of bars, cars, and people.

  He wanted to get lost in the crowd, but he saw too many police, both on foot and watching from squad cars.

  The bars were closing. Foot traffic was heavy. Students mingled with older couples and groups. He followed along behind one of the groups moving north, head down and walking unsteadily as if he’d been drinking all night.

  He slowed his pace behind the group as they left the busy area. A couple of minutes later, they entered an apartment building, never seeming to have noticed him.

  Hallman glanced around to be sure he was well out of the area the police would likely be searching for him. He walked at a relaxed pace. Three miles past the river crossing, veering toward the darker sides of the streets.