Authors: Roy Johansen
N
atalie Simone's cell phone rang with a spirited rendition of Beethoven's “Ode to Joy.” She picked it up from her dining room table. “Natalie here.”
She listened for a moment, then cut the connection.
Lyles joined her at the table. “Short conversation.”
“That was one of Cavasos's people. He wanted to make sure I was near my phone so that my contact doesn't waste his time.”
“Who's the contact?”
“Ryland.”
“Ryland who?”
“Just Ryland. He picks up an occasional piece from me.”
“Is he high in the organization?”
“High enough for you, I'm sure. What do you want with these guys? You're not into drug trafficking.”
“I'm into whatever pays the bills. Like you, I suppose.”
She shot him an ice-cold glance. “I sell guns, and that's it. I don't deal drugs and I've never killed anybody, which is more than I can say for you.”
He chuckled. “I'm surprised no one's killed
you
yet, with that smart mouth of yours.”
“People have tried.”
“So that's what the Berettas up the sleeves are for.”
“They've saved my life more than once.” She leaned back in the chair. For the first time, she was actually feeling comfortable around Lyles. She'd heard from the other suppliers that he was some kind of killing machine, and although that could be true, they neglected to tell her that he was also a funny, personable, and good-looking man.
He sat next to her. “Do you see yourself still hiding guns up your sleeves in twenty-five years?”
“Hell, no. I'll be retired and living on a dolphin ranch in Hawaii.”
“Ride ‘em, Flipper.”
“I haven't been able to save much yet, but I will. You must have a lot socked away.”
“Sure. But when you've got all the money you'll ever need, you start looking for other things to make life worth living.”
“Like what?”
“Spiritual things.”
She laughed.
“What's so funny?”
“You and I both are going to hell. You know that, don't you?”
“No.”
“Surely you don't think you're heading for heaven.”
“No. Heaven is coming here. Sooner than you realize.”
The cell phone rang again, and she answered it. “Natalie here.” She listened. “Hi, Ryland. I got in more of those German automatics you like. If you wanna take a look, it'll have to be tonight. They'll be gone by tomorrow morning.”
She gave Lyles an encouraging glance, then wrote down an address. “See you at eleven.”
She cut the connection and smiled. “We're in business.”
“A corti-what?” Howe asked.
“A pulmicort corticosteroid inhaler,” Joe replied. “Its trade name is Turbuhaler. Jesse Randall uses it twice a day for a respiratory condition.”
They were in Lieutenant Gerald's office, keeping him posted on their progress. Joe handed Howe a memo page on which he'd jotted the inhaler name. “If Jesse's abductors have any interest in keeping him alive and well, they may try to get some of this soon, if they haven't already.”
“Good work,” Gerald said. “I trust there have been no more unexplained attacks on your person.”
“Not on
my
person,” Joe said. “But I should tell you about my afternoon with Stewart Dunning.”
“Vince, you're missing it!” Nikki yelled from her spot in front of the television. She was watching
Titanic
for the fiftieth time.
“How many times do I really need to see Leonardo
drown?” Vince said, drawing furiously on a large sketch pad.
“It's more exciting than watching you draw pictures all night.”
“I'm still trying to help your father figure out some things. Like those shadow storms at Nelson's house before he was killed. I have some ideas that I'm going to run by him when he gets home.”
“Yeah, and he'll shoot those down just like all your other ideas.”
“Not this time.”
The phone rang.
Nikki answered it. “Hello?”
A strong male voice spoke. “Hello, is this Nikki Bailey?”
“Yes. Who is this, please?”
“I'm Detective Mark Howe. I'm working with your father on a case right now.”
“He told me about you.”
He chuckled. “I won't even ask about that.”
“My dad's not here right now, but if you want me to take a message—”
“No, I have a message for
you.
The battery died on your dad's cell phone, and he radioed in to ask if someone here would tell you to wait outside for him. You guys are going out to dinner.”
“Aw, man. He said I could help him cook tonight.”
“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. I wish someone were taking
me
out to dinner.”
She sighed. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sure thing.”
She hung up and turned to Vince. “Dad wants me to meet him outside so he doesn't have to find a parking
space. We're going out to eat. You wanna come with us?”
“Nah. I gotta meet someone a little later.”
“Who?”
“A friend.”
“A woman friend?”
“Yes, if it's any of your business.”
“Oh.” The corners of her mouth drooped.
He closed his sketch pad and playfully bopped her on the head with it. “She's a
friend.
Come on, let's get downstairs.”
They were outside the building in less than two minutes, standing under a streetlight near the building's main entrance. A car approached from down the street, but Nikki and Vince saw that it was not her father's SUV.
“I'm charging your dad double time for this,” Vince said. “It's cold out here.”
Nikki zipped up her jacket. “Stop being such a baby.”
“A baby? You think that I— Ow!” Vince clutched the side of his leg.
“What?”
Vince began to sway. “I feel … weird.”
“Vince …” Nikki grabbed his arms to keep him from falling over. Even under the dim streetlight she could see the color draining from his face.
“It's hard to breathe,” he whispered.
Something whistled past her ear.
She turned toward the street. The car had stopped, the driver's window was rolled down, and the shadowy figure behind the wheel was aiming a pistol at her.
Before she could react, Vince pulled her closer and angled his body between her and the car. “Run,” he said.
“Not without you.”
“Go!”
“We'll cut between the buildings.”
The car door swung open.
Nikki yanked Vince's hands. “Come on.”
She pulled him along with her, running toward the narrow walkway that separated her building from the abandoned shoe factory next door.
Something else whistled past her head. She turned and saw a small gleaming projectile about an inch long embedded in the wood molding of her building.
“Tranquilizer,” Vince said, slurring the word slightly. “Hurry.”
He pushed Nikki forward as he heard the car door close. They ran into the shadows of the narrow walkway and jumped over dozens of copper pipes that were strewn about. Footsteps followed behind them.
“He's coming,” Nikki said. “Faster!”
Vince's eyes fluttered as he stumbled forward. “I can't do it….”
“You have to!”
“Keep going, Nikki. Find someplace to hide.”
“No!”
“He's after you. Not me. I have a surprise for him. Go!”
Nikki turned. The man, who was wearing jeans and a dark hooded sweater, was gaining on them.
“Go!” Vince said again.
She sprinted ahead. Almost immediately, she heard
Vince fall. The pipes rolled and rattled as he hit the ground. But she didn't look back.
She emerged in the back courtyard of the old factory, where she'd played dozens of times even though her father had told her not to. The grass was overgrown, cropping up over and around abandoned industrial machinery.
She crawled inside a half-buried corrugated pipe, invisible to anyone who hadn't explored every inch of the cluttered old courtyard. She heard a scuffle in the dark walkway.
Vince.
Pipes rattled. She huddled in the darkness, eyes closed, praying that Vince would be all right.
The noise stopped. Silence. Then footsteps. Coming closer.
Someone moved through the tall grass of the courtyard. “Nikki,” a familiar voice whispered.
Vince!
Nikki poked her head up. Vince was staggering through the courtyard, holding a three-foot section of copper pipe.
She crawled out of her hiding place and ran toward him. “I'm here!”
He hugged her.
“What happened?”
“I pretended to pass out, then grabbed this pipe and let him have it when he tried to get by me.” He squinted in the darkness. “Is there another way out of here?”
“This way.”
Nikki led him to a jagged hole in the back gate.
They squeezed past the splinters and found themselves on a dark stretch of Ridley Avenue.
Nikki nervously glanced back at the courtyard. “Who was it?”
“I don't know. But he was definitely after you.”
“Why?”
“Maybe your dad can tell us.”
A pair of headlights speared them from the end of the block.
“Shit.” Vince grabbed Nikki's hand.
“It's him!” Nikki said.
The car suddenly picked up speed.
Nikki tugged at Vince's arm. “Hurry!”
The sound of the car's engine filled her ears. She turned and saw it roaring toward them, kicking up a gray cloud of concrete dust.
Vince picked her up and staggered to a tall graffiti-marked concrete wall surrounding an industrial complex. He strained to lift her. “Pull yourself up, honey.”
“But how will you—?”
“Do it!”
She gripped the top of the wall and swung her right leg over. She looked back. The car was only yards away. “Vince!”
He looked up at her with his now-heavy lids.
No …
Then, as she watched, the car roared straight into him and struck the wall. Nikki screamed. She fought to hold on as the wall shook from the impact.
A bus turned onto the block.
“Help me!” Nikki shouted. “Please!”
The car pulled back, then squealed away, leaving
Vince's twisted body on the sidewalk. Nikki closed her eyes, trying to block out the horrible sight below her.
It didn't work.
Joe grabbed the clipboard out of the emergency room receptionist's hands. “Where's my daughter?”
“Sir, if you'll wait a minute—”
“I can't do that.” He scanned the list and spotted Nikki's name. “E-Six. Where is that?”
“Sir—”
“Tell me now, or I'm going to barge through every one of those doors.”
Joe heard a calm voice behind him. “It's okay. I'll take him back.”
He turned to see the tall Latino doctor who had tended to Cy Gavin the other night. “How is she?”
“A few cuts, some minor bruises. Physically, she's fine. Emotionally, well …”
“Take me to her.”
“This way.” The doctor led him down the busy corridor. “It would be best not to make her relive the experience just yet.”
“I'm not here as a cop,” Joe said.
“I didn't think you were.” He gestured toward an open door.
Joe ran into the room. Nikki was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She didn't seem to realize that he was in the room.
“Honey?”
She still didn't look at him. “Vince is dead, isn't he?”
Joe brushed the hair off her forehead. “Yes,” he whispered.
“The man was after
me.”
“Shh.”
She sobbed. “I thought I was gonna die….”
“It'll be okay.”
“No. It won't be okay for Vince.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and held her. “I know, honey.”
“I saw it happen. I
saw
it.”
“Shh. Try to relax.”
“Why did it happen?”
“I don't know, honey.”
She buried her head in his chest, and he held her closer. There would be time later to get the whole story from her. The bus driver had given a good description of the car that had hit Vince, and the officers on the scene had already taken what little description of the suspect Nikki could give them.
Now she just needed her father.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, Joe left the room and walked past the reception desk.
Howe stood up in the waiting area. “How is she?”
“What are you doing here?”
“The lieutenant told me. I came right away.”
“Someone identifying himself as you told my daughter to go outside.”
“I heard. It wasn't me, Bailey.”
“Where were you around six?”
“Are you serious?”
Joe stepped closer. “Where were you?”
“I was either with you talking to the lieutenant or in the conference room having my powwow with the FBI guys.”
“Whoever did this probably got worked over with a metal pipe. There should be bruises.”
Howe glared at him. “You want me to take off my goddamned shirt? Is that it?”
Joe held his glance a moment longer, then turned away. “No. I'm sorry. It's just—this is my
kid.”
“I know. I have two girls. I'd go crazy if anyone tried to hurt them.”
Joe sat in the waiting area. “She's sleeping now.”
“Best thing for her.”
“I just don't get it. Why her?”
Howe sat next to him. “Three possibilities: It was a random attack, somebody you've busted before is looking for payback, or someone wants to impede your present investigation.”
“Now
look who's quoting old academy lectures.”
“Nope. This one's all mine.”
“Which do you think it is?”
“It was too calculated to be random. He knew who you were, who I was, your schedule, all that. I've already asked Karen to run a check on the prison releases of your collars, but I'd guess most of them aren't the violent type.”
“You're right.”
“That leaves the third possibility. Maybe you're doing something right in this case, and it scares somebody.”
“They think this will derail my investigation?”
“If they'd taken your daughter, would you even be thinking about Jesse Randall and Robert Nelson?”
“No.”
“Even now is there anything you'd rather do than pack up the car and take her away from all this?”
Joe stared at him. “I guess some people
can
read minds.”