Chapter Thirty-One
Leaving Casey’s apartment, Carla tried his cell phone for the fourth time, and still got no answer. Stopped at a traffic light, she railed at the tinny sound of the voicemail computer.
Enough of this crap!
She dialed another number, getting an answer on the second ring. “Criminal Investigations Unit, Frank James speaking.”
“Frank, this is Carla Raven.”
“Hi, Carla. What’s up?”
“I need a favor. Can you please pull the cell phone records and GPS track an Aaron Casey? He’s a material witness and I need to locate him. The number is 555-7616. Also, pull the call records on his home line too. The number is 555-3210.”
The other end of the open line buzzed in her ear for a second or two and then James’ voice returned. “Anything for you. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll call you back.”
She smiled, “Thanks Frank, I owe you one.” She snapped the phone shut, slipping it back in her pocket.
Making the on-ramp to the John Fitzgerald Expressway, her stomach growled loudly, telling her this morning’s coffee and doughnut had finally given up. She checked her watch.
Three-thirty, already. No wonder I’m starving. Well, I have a few minutes to kill anyway, so I might as well get some food.
She saw a sign for a restaurant a few miles later.
Sitting alone in the booth at Paddy O’Leary’s Pub, her stomach growled again at the smell of burgers and fries. The restaurant seemed to be in a lull, no longer serving the lunch crowd, but not yet hit by the dinner rush. The bar, however, was crowded with blue-collar stiffs, the rowdy patrons laughing and getting an early start on tomorrow’s hangover.
Waiting on her own bacon cheeseburger, Carla divided her attention between keeping tabs on a Charles Manson look-alike at the bar and the TV mounted on the wall a few feet away. The screen flitted back and forth, showing the sports news and teasers for a breaking story to come up after the commercials.
She stole a quick glance at Manson and he caught her eye. Holding her gaze for just a second, he flashed a leering smile missing several teeth. Her stomach tightened and she suddenly felt an intense need to bathe.
As the waitress brought her meal, the commercial ended and the announcer went on to follow up an earlier story of a prominent Boston scientist gone missing. She watched the T.V., quietly eating, when her cell phone chirped in her jacket. Digging it out, she flipped it open. “Raven here.” she said between French fries.
“Carla, it’s Frank. I got that info you wanted. I’m sending it to you.”
“Thanks Frank, I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime. And speaking of time, do you have any plans for dinner tonight?” he asked, the tone hopeful.
Carla paused before responding to the invitation and a notable sarcasm crept into her voice when she answered. “Well Frank, I can probably clear my schedule. Will your wife be joining us?”
“All right, I can take a hint. But you’ll never know what you missed.”
“You know the deal Frank; no divorce, no date. Bye.”
Snapping the phone shut, she shook her head in disappointment.
Why is it that every man I meet lately is only interested in finding the quickest way to separate me from my panties?
Carla signaled the waitress for the check.
The snow fell in increasing density as she exited the restaurant. Moving across the parking lot in the premature darkness, she dropped her keys, her truncated step kicking them under the car next to her. Kneeling down on the cold, wet asphalt, she swore under her breath and reached beneath the car.
Finally reclaiming her errant keys, she prepared to get to her feet. Concentration focused on the keys, she missed the movement in the shadows.
The first sign of trouble came with the gleam of the streetlight off the knife’s blade. Her heart skipped a beat as the cold steel touched her throat.
Leaning over her shoulder, the assailant hissed in her ear. “Gimme the money, bitch!”
His putrid breath reeked in a mix of burned tobacco and cheap whiskey.
She hesitated for a second, her heart pounding against her ribs, then spoke, the tone intentionally nervous and shaky. “O-okay, take it. Please don’t hurt me.”
“Just gimme the cash! …Now!”
She slowly rose to stand with her back to the man holding the knife. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the Manson look alike. She slipped her wallet out of her jacket and held it out, further away from his searching grasp. “Here, take it.”
“The rings and watch too!” he barked.
Carla’s glanced at the third finger of her right hand, seeing the two-karat diamond solitaire her Grandmother left her reflecting the lights.
Grandma’s ring…no way!
Dropping the blade slightly away from her throat, he took a half-step around her, still reaching for the wallet in short, stabbing surges.
Heart beating madly, she threw her right foot up and back, catching her assailant unaware. She heard him yell as she connected with his groin. Spinning around, she drew her pistol and pointed it down at the face of the man now lying on the ground. “Federal Agent! Don’t move!”
Holding his bruised crotch, the man whimpered. “Jesus Christ, lady,” he hissed in pain. “You’re a cop?”
“No. I’m a Federal Agent, and you’re under arrest.”
The thief’s face went white and he moaned in despair. “I wasn’t gonna hurt you,” he said between clenched teeth. “I just wanted some money.”
Carla’s face reddened in resentment and disgust. “You must be a special kind of stupid to jack up a federal agent.”
She fumed in a noxious mix of anger and frustration, most of if totally unrelated to her assailant. “I should just shoot you right now. It’d be less paperwork.”
The man said nothing, but groaned a little louder, curling into the fetal position on the frozen asphalt. She flipped him onto his stomach, her knee between his shoulder blades and handcuffed him. Standing once again, she jerked him up by his arms, turning him back to face her. “You have the right to remain silent. I strongly suggest you use it.”
Unceremoniously yanking him by his wrists, Carla led the would-be thief back toward the pub, finishing the Miranda warning as they walked. Nearing the door, she spoke, her words clipped, the fury now tightly restrained. “We’re going back inside and you’re going to behave…so I won’t have to shoot you. Understand?”
He nodded, stumbling through the parking lot as the light snowfall became a flurry. Reaching the entrance, Carla’s blood pressure began to slowly drop back to normal as she guided the manacled man through the foyer, immediately drawing the attention of the man behind the bar.
Cuffing her prisoner to the brass handrail, Carla pushed a stray strand of hair from her face and smoothed the lapels of her jacket. The short, stocky bartender closed the distance quickly, his flame-red hair surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke emanating from the thick cigar wedged between his teeth.
“Excuse me,” he said, his thick Irish brogue overlaid with a classic New England accent. “But what is it ya think ya’re doing to me bar?”
She turned to the man, immediately struck by his powerful build. She noted a map of small scars laced his forehead and eyebrows.
This guy’s a brick with legs. Ex-boxer, maybe?
“And who might you be, Sir?” she asked.
Removing the cigar from his lips, he flicked an ash into a tray on the bar. “I’m John Conway, Jr.,” he said, spreading his arms slightly. “I own this fine establishment. And just who might you be, Lassie?”
She flashed him her badge. “Special Agent Carla Raven, FBI”
He folded his arms over a massive barrel chest, eyeing her cautiously. “And how might a poor Irishman be of help ta’ the likes of the famous FBI?”
“I don’t need any help, thank you,” she said. “I’m just getting in out of the cold.”
He looked p
ast her, sneering at the man now cuffed to the bar. “And is this fine gentleman givin’ ya trouble?”
Still stinging from the earlier encounter, Carla eyed her prisoner with evident distaste. “Oh, I had a little problem in your parking lot,” she said. “Einstein here pulled a knife on me and tried to steal my wallet.”
Conway’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the cowering man. “Oh, I see! A common thief are ya?”
Moving with the speed and authority of the Lacrosse player he once was, Conway cuffed the man in the back of the head with a beefy hand. “Did ya mother na teach you better than to harass a lady?” he cuffed him again, the sharp blow snapping the felon’s head forward. “Ya rotten bum!”
He cuffed him a last time for good measure.
Smiling inwardly as Conway berated the cringing man, Carla dialed her phone and waited for the call to connect.
The bar owner looked back to the agent, his clear blue eyes flashing with mirth. “If you’ve a mind Lass, I could take this one out back and teach him some manners,” he said. “I can promise he wouldn’t be bothering ya again.”
Carla held the phone to her ear, closing out the sounds of the bar. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then at the handcuffed thief, then back to the agent. “Suit yourself Lassie. I’ll be tendin’ to me patrons over there…if you need me.”
He turned away with a shrug of his broad shoulders, walking back behind the bar to disappear among the curling wisps of smoke. It took another hour for the local police to come and collect the prisoner, Carla’s mood progressing from bad to worse by the time they led him away.
Finally getting back to her BlackBerry, she looked through the telephone numbers included in the report Frank James sent via email.
Well, well. Somebody at Casey’s apartment called Ithaca, New York yesterday. If it was Dr. Ryan, why did her brother tell me he hadn’t heard from her?
Haunted by a nagging sense of inaction boiling on the back burner of her mind, she silently cursed Marco for letting the younger Ryan escape.
He better find him pretty dammed soon, too! Or he’ll spend the rest of his career busting teenagers for illegal music down-loading.
She continued working her way through the list and stopped at the only other call from outside the greater Boston area.
Where the hell is Cumberland, Rhode Island? And, why would Casey be getting calls from there?
She checked the number. A commercial line, registered to a ‘Big Ed’s Auto Salvage’ in Cumberland, owner’s name, Ed O’Brian.
She pulled up the address with a few more taps at the screen. “1540 N. Mendon Road.” she said aloud.
Leaving the pub, she put the phone back in her pocket and stepped out into the night. The frigid air enveloped her like a wet blanket. She shivered against the biting cold.
God, sometimes I miss San Diego. It might be the land of fruits and nuts, but at least it’s warm.
Returning to her office, Carla pulled up the file on Ed O’Brian and consulting her computer mapping program, discovered Cumberland, Rhode Island is only 55 miles from Boston.
Might mean something, might mean nothing.
She continued scanning the file and was surprised to see it read much like Casey’s. Cross-checking the two, she found he and O’Brian grew up in the same town and served in the same unit.
This can’t be a coincidence. I guess I’m going to Rhode Island.
She checked her watch.
9:25, guess it will have to wait until morning. I’ve got to get some rest.
"Chain Reaction" Power Failure Book I Page 41
