Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

“If you need a weapon, I’ll give you one. But don’t you go getting any ideas,” Metcalfe said with a scowl. He held both hands out in front of him for emphasis. “I can wring your neck.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Hallman said. “We need to work as a team if we’re going to get the money from Kimball and avoid the FBI.”

  “What do they know?”

  “My crystal ball’s a little cloudy,” he replied. When Metcalfe frowned, he shrugged. “Nothing I guess. Otherwise we’d be in custody, wouldn’t we? But Norell could have told them about the lawyer he used to sell the boy, I guess.”

  Metcalfe shook his head. “Not likely. He’s not an idiot. He was selling babies. Takes a cold-hearted bastard to do that.”

  Hallman shrugged. “He didn’t seem like a fighter. They lean on him and he’ll fold like a step ladder.”

  Metcalfe scowled and fell silent for a while. “You got a plan for the handover?”

  Metcalfe was beginning to think ahead, which wasn’t a good thing. Hallman had spent six long months planning this. He wouldn’t give up his hard work to Metcalfe unless he had to.

  He shook his head. “Have to find the kid first. After that we’ll work something out, depending on where and when we find him.”

  “You know the right lawyer?”

  “I think so.”

  “What if the lawyer doesn’t know where the boy is?” Metcalfe said.

  “He’s a lawyer. He can find him. Look him up on a database or something.”

  “And if he can’t?”

  Hallman shrugged. It was a stupid question.

  “You got a backup plan?” Metcalfe said.

  Hallman played dumb. “Use one of those online lookup places, maybe?”

  Metcalfe changed lanes to go around an eighteen-wheeler. “We’re going to need his Social Security number, and anything else we can get.”

  “The lawyer will have records. Lawyers are packrats.”

  “You better hope so,” Metcalfe growled.

  They drove on in silence. Hallman knew if they came to a dead end with the lawyer, the plan was finished. And if the plan was finished, so was he. He found himself hoping that the lawyer would be worth it, even as he knew lawyers never were.

  The right lawyer lived in Mission Hills, an upscale area of the city. Tree-lined avenues, manicured lawns, houses tidy and ready for magazine features.

  The home was a sprawling single-story building with a detached garage and a low, white picket fence.

  The house walls were painted brick, a light cream that contrasted with the dark green fake shutters adorning the windows, and the large porch covering the front door.

  The street was deserted. No one parked on the road. Probably something to do with the homeowner’s association.

  Metcalfe drove past, traveling the speed limit. Hallman looked over the houses and lawns on the street. He twisted to look behind the trees as they passed.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Metcalfe looped around the street behind the house and parked by the garage. A single small light hung over a side door with a frosted glass pane.

  “One at a time,” Metcalfe said.

  Hallman knew what he meant. One stranger was less threatening than two, but once one was inside the second could enter easily.

  Metcalfe stood against the wall, several paces away from the door, well out of sight when the owner opened the door.

  Hallman put his ear to the door and rang the bell. A muffled tune rang out inside the house.

  He stepped back and waited.

  He saw no movement behind the frosted glass. He rang the bell a second time. Nothing stirred. He gave it a full minute before working his way along the windows, looking for some sign that the house was occupied. No luck.

  “Norell told me the guy was single. Probably still at work,” Metcalfe said. “Get back in the car.”

  He drove to the street behind the lawyer’s house. The plots were large, the houses well separated. He parked by a hedge directly behind the residence they were watching.

  They walked around to the garage. Hallman scanned the area. On foot, they were easy prey for the cops. His hands felt clammy and his shirt stuck to his back.

  “Anything goes south and we exit through the rear,” Metcalfe said, tilting his head in that direction as they walked up the lawyer’s driveway. “Straight over the fence and into the car. By the time anyone around here notices, we’ll be gone.”

  “We’re going to sit here and wait?” Hallman said.

  “You got something better to do?”

  Hallman found a side door into the garage. He glanced over the neighboring houses before slamming his weight into the door. It creaked and cracked, but the lock held. He leaned against it until it gave.

  There were no windows and the garage was dark. A Chevrolet Suburban filled one space, the other was empty.

  Shelves lined the walls and garden tools hung in neat lines. A large wood and metal workbench was filled with empty plant pots.

  On either side of the roll-up doors was a wide section of wall. Anyone standing there would be hidden until the car was in the garage. Metcalfe nodded his agreement.

  They took up position, tucked in the corners, backs leaning against the wall. Metcalfe held up his gun and tapped it with his finger. Hallman wasn’t sure if he was indicating he would use it to subdue the lawyer, but he gave him a thumbs-up.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Tuesday, November 28

  5:00 p.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Jess entered a small room where a plainclothes detective and two FBI agents were already working. They acknowledged her when Fernandez ushered her to an empty seat.

  A TV monitor showed Norell and his lawyer, Ammerson Belk, seated on one side of a small table in an interview room. The camera was high up in the corner of the room. Both men avoided looking into the lens directly.

  Jess sent a text message to Morris, and stared hopefully at her phone, but received no reply. After a few moments, she put her phone away. Maybe he was resting, which was the right thing to do.

  Fernandez entered the interview room and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

  Belk straightened his chair and arranged a yellow legal pad on his knee to take notes.

  Fernandez laid a sheaf of papers on the table and went through the preliminaries. The clarity of his voice via the microphone and through the TV was startling. He questioned Norell about his recovery before diving into more serious issues.

  “According to your statement, you entered your garage and a man attacked you.”

  Belk leaned forward. “Why are you holding my client?”

  “We’re not holding him. He was discharged from the hospital and agreed to provide a statement.” Fernandez looked back at Norell. “Did you know the intruder?”

  Norell shook his head. “No.”

  “Did you know he was in the garage before he attacked you?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Was the door open? CCTV? Unfamiliar noises from inside?”

  “No,” Norell said.

  “You said he forced you to drive your SUV, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did he want you to take him?”

  “He just said to drive.”

  Fernandez nodded. “You headed downtown?”

  “I thought it was better to be around other people, not miles out of town with no one around.”

  Belk leaned forward again. “He threatened my client with a sharpened saw. A dangerous weapon in an enclosed space. Mr. Norell was doing the sensible thing. This is all in his earlier statement to the police.”

  Fernandez nodded. “Why was he in your garage?”

  Norell shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Do you keep anything special in your garage?”

  “You declared the garage a crime scene and searched it already,” Belk interjected as he raised his eyebrows. “Did you find anything special in there?”


  Fernandez ignored him and consulted his sheaf of papers. “Did you have any visitors the night before?”

  Norell shook his head.

  “You’re sure?”

  Norell nodded.

  Fernandez waited.

  “What?” Norell said.

  Belk seemed to hear an internal alarm of some kind. He held up his hand. “My client—”

  “I know my own house,” Norell said, huffily.

  Fernandez looked down at the papers. “Witnesses have confirmed a black BMW SUV was parked down the street from your house the night before you were attacked.”

  Norell snorted. “Nosy neighbors.”

  “The BMW remained on the street late into the night, they said.”

  “Do you have a point?” Belk said, seemingly irritated now. But Jess figured his reactions were all practiced and offered for show. He had to know they were being watched and the session recorded, even if his client didn’t.

  Fernandez kept his attention on Norell. “Do you know who was in the BMW?”

  Belk shook his head. “Down the street? How is he supposed to know who visits his neighbors?”

  “Mr. Norell was attacked. We’re trying to find out who is responsible,” Fernandez offered reasonably. “We need to be thorough, don’t we?”

  Belk waved the comment away. “Anything to help the police—”

  “FBI.”

  “You haven’t told us why the FBI is involved in this, anyway. Was this a federal fugitive or something?” Belk frowned, and Fernandez said nothing. “We have provided a statement—”

  “And I only need a few clarifications. Just so I understand your statement. To help the FBI.” He pronounced the bureau’s initials slowly for emphasis.

  Fernandez picked up the sheaf of papers. “The BMW was also seen earlier that morning at your house. Parked in front of your gate.”

  Belk pressed his lips into a thin line.

  Norell stared at the table.

  “Did you have a visitor last night?” Fernandez said, his voice cool and calm.

  Norell took a deep breath. He glowered at Fernandez. “There was…there was someone. Bible pusher sort of guy. Trying to boost his congregation or something.”

  “Which church was that, sir?” Fernandez asked smoothly.

  Norell shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t interested. Sent him away. That was it.”

  “He didn’t stay long?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t come inside your house?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. No one else?”

  “No one.”

  Fernandez nodded. “Tell me what you know about Earle Gotting.”

  Norell took a breath before shaking his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “Interesting.” Fernandez flipped through his papers, found the one he was looking for, and held it up. “According to county records, six months ago you transferred ownership of an Audi to him.”

  Norell glanced down at the table as if he was thinking really hard about the question. “I think I did sell that car around then. Maybe I did sell it to him. Sorry. Just forgot the buyer’s name.”

  Fernandez shook the paper he was holding and leaned forward to pass it over to Belk. “According to the documents filed with the state, he purchased it from you for fifty-three thousand dollars.”

  Norell shrugged. “So.”

  “It was practically brand new.”

  “I didn’t like it. It was…complicated.”

  Fernandez nodded. “Did he pay cash?”

  “He doesn’t have to answer that,” Belk said.

  “Of course, he doesn’t, Mr. Belk. It’s a simple enough question, though. Why wouldn’t he want to help us find the man who attacked him?”

  Belk leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “My client was assaulted by a madman. He was shot at and injured. He could have been killed. His vehicle was severely damaged. What we want to know is what you’re doing about it?”

  “We are looking for the man.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it.” Belk poked his chin out like a pugnacious bulldog.

  “What does it sound like, Mr. Belk?”

  Belk clamped his mouth shut a moment and made up his mind. “Mr. Norell has told you everything he knows. Unless you have anything else, he’s tired. He’d like to go home.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Tuesday, November 28

  6:05 p.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Hallman’s back ached. The garage floor was the usual hard concrete. He’d been propped up on the floor, his back to the wall for more than an hour. He stood and stretched. His knees protested the movement. He was too old for this crap.

  Metcalfe watched him. Sometimes he stared, other times he scanned the garage, but all the time Hallman knew he kept watch.

  Metcalfe wore dark pants, a thick dark mid-length jacket, and heavy boots. The cold didn’t seem to bother him at all. As they’d settled in their respective corners of the garage, he’d donned leather gloves and a black fleece hat.

  Hallman paced the garage to get warm.

  “Get back in the corner,” Metcalfe said.

  “I need to move. I’m seizing up.”

  Metcalfe stood. “Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Hallman glowered. “What kind of partnership is this? The lawyer might turn up with a friend. It’s going to take both of us to get this plan done.”

  Metcalfe nodded slowly. “Just don’t get any bright ideas, Hallman. I’d be more than happy to snap every bone in your body. Understand me?”

  A car engine slowed out front and then revved. It was pulling into the driveway. The sound bounced off the walls.

  Hallman pressed himself into the corner by the door and massaged the stiffness from his hands and knuckles.

  Metcalfe drew his gun.

  The engine stopped in the driveway. A door opened and closed.

  Hallman felt for the seal around the garage doors and pried the rubber back a fraction. A Mercedes was parked by the back door into the house. A short, portly man was searching his pockets for his keys.

  “It’s Belk. He’s not coming in the garage,” Hallman whispered.

  Belk let himself into the house. The lock clicked behind him.

  Metcalfe hurried to the side door out of the garage.

  “Wait,” Hallman hissed.

  Metcalfe had his hand on the door handle. “We’ve got to get him.”

  “It’s too late. He’s inside.”

  Metcalfe held up his gun with a hard glare. “We’ll just knock on the door. Like we planned.”

  Hallman breathed out. His shoulders sagged a fraction. The adrenaline rush was fading. “Okay.”

  Metcalfe tucked his gun inside his jacket, they exited the side door, and took up the same positions as before, Hallman stood by the back door, and Metcalfe crouched several feet away out of sight.

  Hallman rang the bell. The distorted outline of a man appeared on the other side of the frosted glass, the same heavyset guy that had climbed out of the Mercedes. Ammerson Belk.

  Belk stopped a couple of feet from the door. “Who’s there?”

  “Is that Ammerson Belk?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Tim Hartly,” Hallman lied.

  Belk paused. “Who?”

  “Zander Norell sent me.”

  “Who?” Belk said.

  Hallman leaned close to the glass. “Norell. I have a message from him.”

  Belk unlocked the door as wide as the safety chain allowed. His fleshy face peered through the gap between the door and the frame. “What do you want?”

  “Can I come inside?”

  “No. What’s the message?”

  Hallman looked behind him. “Norell said not to tell you unless I was inside where no one could overhear me.”

  Belk scowled a moment. He slid back the chain.

  Hallman stepped into a laundry room.

  Metcalfe s
hoved Hallman into the room and darted in behind him, kicking the door closed, and pointing his gun at Belk’s face. “One word and I’ll blow your head off.”

  Belk staggered back against the washing machine, a horrified expression on his face.

  “We’re not here to hurt you, we just want some information,” Hallman said.

  Belk whimpered.

  Metcalfe shook his gun in Belk’s face. “Quiet.”

  Hallman eased Metcalfe backward and lowered his gun. “We want to talk. That’s all.”

  Belk’s lip trembled, but his whimpering stopped.

  “Thirteen or fourteen years ago, Earle Gotting brought you a kid. A toddler. Not quite two years old.”

  Belk gave an unconvincing frown. “What is this?”

  “I need to know where he is.”

  Belk breathed in and out with a loud hiss.

  Metcalfe shoved the gun into Belk’s face. “Answer the question.”

  Belk took a deep breath and pushed Metcalfe’s gun arm back a bit. Now that he knew why they were there, he seemed to think he was in charge. “First, I don’t even know who Earle Gotting is. And he certainly never gave me any kid. You’ve got the wrong guy. Sorry.”

  “Norell brought him to you. We know all about it. You and Norell.” Hallman glanced at Metcalfe, who shoved the gun into Belk’s pudgy neck.

  Belk snorted and pushed the gun away again, trying to act cool. But Hallman saw his pulse jump at the vein on his right temple. “Okay. But I never knew the names. Another layer, you know?”

  Hallman sneered. “Right. You arranged private legal adoptions without knowing the kids’ names? Not a chance.”

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

  “We could blackmail you forever. But we won’t. We want the kid. Then we’ll go.”

  “Why now? After thirteen years?”

  Hallman stared at him.

  “Well it doesn’t matter,” Belk said. “I didn’t have the names. I can’t help you.”

  “It was thirteen years ago. June or July. You don’t need the name,” Hallman said.

  Metcalfe waved his gun.

  Belk sighed. “I don’t have that information here.”