No, I wasn’t hungry; we’d just eaten. Yes, of course, I would have some on our way out the door.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, Rico was working on his second slice.
Nonnie stood before me, holding a plateful of rugelach, and fixed me in her sad, puppy dog stare. “Miss Allie, let me help find Leo.”
“I wish you could,” I said, shoving a piece of pastry into my mouth.
I wish you could? Well, that was a big fat lie. Involving Nonnie in the investigation was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.
“Thanks for the treat,” I said, “and for doing my laundry, and taking care of the twins. You’re more help than you know.”
Rico crammed his piece of rugelach into his mouth and reached for another.
“Tick-tock, De Palma. We need to make this a to-go order.”
Nonnie slid the pastry in a plastic bag and gave her plea one last shot. “Please. Let me come. I cannot sit here only worrying. Let me help.”
Her voice conveyed a feeling of helplessness. There was a lot of that going around.
“I’d take you with me,” I said. “But you’re a bigger help here.”
Crushed, Nonnie turned back to the sink. “Fine. I cook. I clean. Go be hero. But do faster. For Leo.”
Rico pushed back his chair. “C’mon, partner. Let’s go find The Ultimate Tapper. Whatever the hell that is.”
Nonnie’s back straightened. “What you say?”
“The Ultimate Tapper.” Rico frowned. “Why? Do you know what that is?”
“Where you hear this?”
“Enzo’s Bar.” Rico walked toward Nonnie and gently spun her around. “What do you know?”
“Enzo’s. On Vine Street, yes? Peoples from old country, they go Enzo’s.” She took Rico’s hands. “Is not The Ultimate Tapper you look for. Is l’ultima tappa—the last stop.” Her eyes flew open wide. “Leo is at l’ultima tappa?”
I grabbed her so hard I almost knocked her over. “What is that?”
“Is last stop. If someone from La Cosa Nostra take you to l’ultima tappa, you not come back. You know,” she said, as she slashed her finger across her neck. “You…how you say it…sleep with fishes.”
I think I peed my pants a little. “Nonnie, look at me. Where? Where is l’ultima tappa?”
“Is empty warehouse, Fourteenth and Clay.”
No freaking way. Could Nonnie be right?
Rico’s foot never left the gas pedal on our way to the warehouse. He parked down the block on 14th, on the opposite side of the street. The building was old, maybe 1800s, judging by the architecture. Solid brick, small casement windows (most of which were broken), one door in the front of the building on 14th and a loading dock around the corner on Clay.
Breeching options were limited.
When Rico reached for his phone, I knew who he was going to call, so I tried to bat it out of his hand. “Don’t call Cap. He’ll make us come back to the office and waste our time developing a plan.”
Ugh. That four-letter P-word. It’s what people do when they’re scared. Not me. I’m an act now and regret it later kind of chick.
Rico looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “You can’t just go barging in there. That building’s five stories tall. Even if he is inside, we have no idea where. We need a viable plan. We need SWAT.”
I squirmed in my seat, like a four-year-old. “But that will take too long. Leo’s been without his meds for,” I looked at my watch, “Oh, God. Almost thirty-six hours. We need to move now.”
Rico shook his head. “Leo could be dead for all we know. But if he is still alive, busting in and getting killed won’t help him.”
Quick to blow off my objection, Rico called Cap and told him what we’d learned.
“It’s the only solid lead we’ve got, Cap. There’s a lookout scumbag on the outside, but we need to know who’s inside with Leo and exactly where they are.” Rico listened then gave a quick nod. “Be there in ten. Four Boy Fifty-Two clear.”
I smacked the dashboard. “Dammit! I told you not to call him.”
He pulled away from the curb and turned onto Clay Street. “Relax. We’ll get Leo. And with some planning, we’ll all get out alive.”
By the time we reached Cap’s office, it was standing room only. Cap, Weston, Jerry Armitage (a captain with the fire department), and Craig Stovall (the SWAT commander), were waiting for us. Jerry had a rolled-up blueprint wedged in the crook of his arm.
Cap waited for us to cram inside his office and close the door. “Let’s get started,” he said. “We’re on borrowed time here.”
Jerry Armitage spread the blueprints across Cap’s desk, and used his finger to outline the building’s features.
“We’ve got five stories, copper piping, copper 110 wiring, and a basement housing a boiler room and a coal chute. One ingress/egress on 14th Street, a loading dock on Clay, and a total of thirty steel casement windows measuring 24” by 48” across the exterior perimeter. One fixed ladder with roof access runs up the west face of the building. Two chimneys, one pulley-operated lift-gate elevator, running up the center of the building behind the central staircase, and additional stairs along the east and west perimeters. Duct work from the original coal furnace is still in place, condition is unknown. The rooftop is obscured by the building’s facade, but the prints show it’s flat with metal casement roof windows at its center.”
Jerry paused and looked up at the group. “The property was purchased by Queen City Restoration Services in July 2014, and a building permit was issued for rehabilitation purposes. CFD has since sent two registered letters to the owners, citing the property as a blight to the community, and asking that the building be demolished, or that the permit be renewed, and the work needed to bring the property up to code be completed.”
He looked up and shrugged. “To date, we’ve received no response to our letters. The last CFD inspection prior to the building’s sale was in June 2013. In short, I can’t tell you what condition the building is in now.”
Jerry glanced at Rico and me. “On the upside, your vic and whoever is holding him captive are currently inside, and we haven’t received any rescue calls. That suggests that the structure could be stable.”
No sooner had Jerry taken a breath than Ottis, the squirrelly janitor, barged through Cap’s door and pushed his garbage bin over the top of Rico’s foot.
Rico grabbed the bin with both hands. “What the fu—”
“Sorry,” Ottis mumbled.
“Ottis!” Cap turned to him and sighed. “We’ve had this discussion before. Knock first, then enter if I give you permission. Can’t you see we’re busy here? Come back later, for chrissake.”
Ottis turned crimson and muttered an apology, then backed out of the room, taking his bin with him.
Cap rolled his eyes. “Where were we?”
Stovall from SWAT cut to the chase. “So, we know the layout of the building, but not its condition. This is where I come in. I’ll send in a drone to take pics through all the windows—including the one on the roof. The drone’s silent, so less chance of tipping our hand. We’ll see how many bogeys we find, and hopefully where they’re holding your vic.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s six-thirty now. I can have the drone up in thirty minutes and back here in sixty, give or take.”
“Go,” Cap said. “Get me enough for a warrant. Let’s take these bastards down.”
Stovall rubbed his chin. “Look, I heard you guys got kicked off this case by the Feds. It’s a kidnapping. The FBI called the ball. They’ve got jurisdiction. No offense, but I’m not willing to lose my job over this. Either you call them in, or I will.”
Cap rubbed his face and sighed. “Yeah. I know. I’ll take care of it.”
I started to pitch a fit but decided to hold my tongue instead. It wouldn’t have done any good. Cap had to call in the Feds, he didn’t have a choice. Arguing wouldn’t get Leo rescued any quicker. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
<
br /> In fact, Little Allie kept yammering that the bigger this operation got, the bigger the chance of a leak.
For once, we agreed on something.
With roughly an hour to spare before Stovall returned, Rico and I hustled to the M.E.’s office to grab Leo’s meds out of the morgue cooler. We walked through the outer doors and down the hallway, to Doc’s office.
He was typing furiously on his laptop and didn’t hear us knock. When he finally glanced up, he seemed startled and slammed the laptop closed.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Rico leaned against the doorway. “We’re here to pick up Leo’s meds.”
“You found him? Where?”
“Hope so,” Rico said, sidestepping the question.
We followed Doc into the morgue. He pulled the bottle out from the cooler, grabbed two syringes, and then went for a third.
“Just in case. Good luck. Hope it’s not too late.” He held onto the medicine and hesitated. “Sorry, but if it is too late, make sure you do him there. I’ve got a full house here. No time for cleanups.”
How thoughtful.
“Sure, Doc,” I said, ripping the bottle and syringes from his hand. “Why don’t I make things easier for you? How about I just find him, spike him in the head, and be done with him? I mean, he’s almost ready to croak anyway. No need making a mess in your nice clean morgue. It’s all about you, isn’t—”
Rico grabbed my elbow and pulled me out the door. “You really need to work on your people skills.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said, yanking myself free. “I’ll handle the dead ones. You handle the living ones. It’s easier that way.”
We made it back to the precinct in plenty of time and threaded our way through the station, passing Ottis the Amazing Squirrel, still emptying trash cans. Weston was in an empty office, on the phone. Rico motioned for him to join us.
I thought I’d lose my mind while the three of us waited outside Cap’s office for Stovall. The minute he rounded the corner, Rico knocked on Cap’s door and we all gathered round to hatch a freaking plan.
Director Dickhead of the FBI arrived on cue, and strutted in like he owned the place.
My hackles raised.
Stovall spread out the blueprint once again, and got down to business. “Okay. The drone got pics of each floor. It identified two bogeys on the first floor and two on the third. The pics shot through the roof window show that Leo is being held on the fifth floor. He’s got two guards. Counting the external lookout, that’s a total of seven bogeys, all carrying assault rifles—”
“Let me see those pics,” I snatched them from Stovall’s hand and focused on the photos of the roof and the fifth floor. The roof window was open at a forty-five-degree angle. Leo was on a chair in the middle of the room, his hands and feet restrained, head back, mouth open. His face was bloody, his eyes black. The bastards had beaten him.
Director Dickhead ripped the pictures out of my hands. “Make no mistake. The FBI is in charge now. This is a federal operation. And with the content of these pics, we don’t need a warrant. We’ve got probable cause.”
He turned back to the blueprints on the desk. “For a target this size, we’ve got inner and outer perimeters. We’ll need C-4 to blow the main entrance and roof windows. We’ll send in the Hostage Rescue Team, using mutual aid from SWAT. Starting with the first floor, we’ll breach and sweep upward, floor by floor. We’ll have the roof team rappel down from a chopper, and send a flashbang down through the sky window. Once the flashbang is deployed, the roof team will rappel inside to the fifth floor, sweep, and effect rescue. This is a precision operation, people. We don’t want to risk any crossfire between our ground and air teams. Any questions?”
He gave it a three count, then said, “Go time is 0100 hours.”
“Wait a minute,” Rico said, “What about Nighthawk? She should go in. Leo’s condition is critical—every minute counts. He needs to have his meds before he’s extracted. Nighthawk worked with the scientists who developed the drug. She knows how and where to inject it, depending on his condition. None of you do.” Rico glanced over at me. “And if she goes, I go. She’s my partner.”
“Negative,” Dickhead said, glowering at Rico. “Neither one of you will be involved in this extraction. There will be no mutual aid from CPD. Of any kind. Especially from you two. Is that clear?”
That arrogant son of a bitch.
Dickhead pointed at the door. “Nighthawk, De Palma, you’re excused for the remainder of this meeting.”
We marched out of Cap’s office and down the hallway, dismissed like a couple of losers from the cool kid’s club.
I threw my hands into the air. “Zero-one-hundred hours? That’s one a.m.! That’s four hours from now! He’ll have been without his meds for close to forty-six hours. He won’t last that long.”
“Nighthawk, stop. Look at me,” Rico said, grabbing my arm and grinding us both to a halt. “He could be dead already. You need to be prepared for that.”
“But what if he isn’t? We might still be able to save him.”
I pulled Rico up the hallway, and shoved him through the next door we came to, the ladies room.
Then I jerked my hand out of my jacket pocket. In it were Leo’s medicine and the syringes.
“Screw Dickhead, and screw that it-takes-a-village rescue parade he’s planning.”
It was nine o’clock. Sunset had long passed. Dickhead be damned. This time I was calling the ball.
“Operation Nighthawk commences now, at twenty-one hundred hours. With or without you, partner.”
20
Oh, No She Di’nt
Rico could spout all the lip service he wanted to about being my partner. Right here, right now, was the time to prove it. Either shit or get off the pot. Kind of appropriate, given that I’d taken him hostage in the ladies room.
The brooding look in his eyes suggested he might be having second thoughts. No great surprise. He’d have been crazy not to. I was asking a lot of him. Insubordination isn’t the way to win friends and influence bosses. Even if we saved Leo, there would be repercussions. That’s code for hell to pay, resulting in possible suspension or termination.
That was no skin off my nose. I was a sub-contractor. I could do what I did without the CPD’s blessing. It was just easier with it. Not to mention, CPD actually paid for my services. But with Rico, it wasn’t just a matter of losing a job, or a paycheck. Being a cop was in his blood. It was all he knew. All he wanted. Forcing him to make this choice wasn’t fair.
But when was life ever fair?
Rather than risk seeing rejection in his eyes, I turned away and walked into one of the stalls.
Rico cleared his throat. “I’ll, ah, just wait for you out there…in the hallway.”
It took me a minute to realize that it didn’t matter whether he was along for the ride or not. That if the career he’d built was more important than stepping outside the bureaucratic box to save a life, I would be better off without him. My fingers curled around the lock on the stall door and froze.
Why was I balking? Leo’s life was in danger. With or without you, that’s what I’d told Rico. The ball was in his court, not mine.
I strode out the restroom and into the hallway, prepared for the worst. I found Rico leaning against the wall, playing with his phone.
He threw on his jacket and asked, “What took you so long? We’re wasting time.”
I should have known he would never let me down, never leave me hanging. He was a true-blue partner, like Harry Delk had been. For a moment, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.
Then we got in the car.
“I’ll take the front door,” I said, unsnapping Hawk’s holster. “You take the loading dock. We’ll meet in the middle and clear each floor as we go.”
Rico did a double take. “Jesus, Nighthawk. There are eight of them scattered throughout the building—at least there were, when the drone took the pictures, but that was hours ago
. There could be more of them now, or they could have all moved to the fifth floor with Leo. We can’t just go in blind, guns blazing. We need a plan.”
Plan. That sucky four-letter word.
“You and your plans. How about you create a diversion outside? When they get distracted, I’ll sneak in from the loading dock and work my way up to the fifth floor.”
“What if that doesn’t work?” he asked. “What if only some of the scumbags come out to see what’s going on? You’d have a close-quarters shootout with whomever was left in the house—by yourself.”
“So?”
“So, if anyone should go in, it’s me.”
“Really?” I asked. “And why is that? I’m as good a shot as you, any day.”
“Maybe. But your weapon retention sucks. I’ve been with you three times when the shit’s hit the fan, and you’ve lost your weapon every time. First, the twitcher at the shooting range knocked your gun away. Then, Miriam whapped your arm and sent your knife flying. Then Joey Fingers pulled the morgue room shelf over on top of you, and you lost your gun again. Zero for three, Nighthawk. That’s pathetic.”
Well. That was uncalled for, even if it was true. He could have had the decency to at least cringe, like he expected me to slap the crap out of him, but instead, he stared, waiting for a response.
The best I could manage was: “Shit happens.”
“Shit doesn’t just happen to you, Nighthawk. You’re like a fucking fountain of shit…the font from which all shit flows.”
Rico took a couple of deep breaths and massaged his neck to work out the kinks. “We’re getting off topic here. When this case is over, we’ll work on your little…training opportunity. Right now, we need to come up with a viable plan to get to Leo.”
With the warehouse in sight, Rico pulled over, parked along the curb on Clay Street, and turned off his lights.
I crossed my arms and glared at him the dark. “What’s your strategy, Mister Grand Poobah Planmaster?”
The Corpse Whisperer Page 17
