Runner, p.26
Runner, page 26
Vine snickered. I looked over at him, not bothering to hide my contempt.
“Don’t get cute,” Martini said, glancing over at Pouch, his eyes traveling from his head to his toes, a bemused expression on his face. “I’d hate for anyone to get hurt here.”
I handed over the bag, knowing Martini wouldn’t find what he was looking for, hoping I would think of something brilliant before he realized it. I could feel the SD card in my pocket resting against my right hip. When they found the bag didn’t have what they wanted, they’d search me, and then maybe they’d trash my office just for kicks. I was sick of people trashing my office. I sneered at Martini as he rifled through my stuff, his beefy man hands pawing all over my wallet, my keys, my life in microcosm. In hindsight, it might have been better to put the SD card in the safe and have Hogan come to me. But hindsight was no help to me now.
“Wrong side again,” Lenny said. He was taunting me, of course. That’s the kind of person Lenny Vine was. Childish, half-baked. He was referring to the last time we’d come up against each other, the time he sold a kid out to a street gang, and they killed her.
I kept my mouth shut, but watched Vine closely. I didn’t know Martini. He could just be greedy and saw an opportunity to make some money to augment his police pension. The morality of his actions he would have to answer for to his maker. Vine, I knew, would slit my throat and then stand there and watch me bleed to death.
“Not here,” Martini announced, slinging my bag to the floor. “Where is it?”
I could hear Pouch breathing hard behind me. “Where’s what?”
It didn’t look like Martini was in a playing mood. “I know you found her. I know she talked. I know she gave you what I’m here to take back.” He flicked his head at Vine. “Search her.”
I fisted my hands, ready to punch Vine’s lights out, or at least get a good shot in, but that’s when I heard the click, and turned to see Martini with a gun aimed at the back of Pouch’s head. I would have thought he couldn’t do it, shoot an innocent person in the back of the head, having once worn a badge and sworn an oath to serve and protect, but his eyes told me something different. This was a different Frank Martini than the one I’d met at Clancy’s.
I unfisted my hands and slowly raised my arms and waited for Vine, who eased up leering at me, to run his weaselly little kid-killing hands up my legs, around my behind and inner thighs.
“Enjoying yourself?” I hissed.
He winked at me. “Oh yes I am.”
I kneed him, but it only made him laugh. He eventually found the right pocket and plucked out the card. He held it up so Martini could see it, then tossed it to him like it was nothing, instead of everything I needed.
“See?” Martini said as he slipped the card into his jacket pocket. “I knew you were holding out.”
I looked at Vine. He was still standing there. Too close, smelling of old cigarette smoke and degradation. I shoved him back, both arms, as hard as I could, not wanting him anywhere near me. He took the shove, and even seemed to enjoy it.
Martini put his gun away. Mine was in the bag on the floor, out of reach. “So now you got nothing,” he said. “So now you can spin your wheels all you want.”
Martini and Lenny exchanged a look; then Vine headed down the stairs, whistling a happy tune, his work done. I was shaking with fury at having had the little troll’s degenerate hands all over me. Pouch moved to stand beside me, watching Martini as he stopped for one final parting shot.
Martini leaned in, lowered his voice, alcohol on his breath. “And in case you’re wondering, it was for the money.”
My eyes burned into his. “You didn’t have to tell me. I knew.”
Pouch bumped into Martini, who pushed him back. “Watch it, you little freak.”
Pouch backed up. “Sorry. So sorry.”
I watched as Martini and the SD card waltzed down the hall and then away down the stairs. I stood there dejected, listening as the front door opened and closed, knowing that all that digging, all that pushing was wasted effort. The growl I let out was one of pure frustration.
“We need to get out of here,” Pouch said.
I bent down to pick up my bag, scooping up the odds and ends that had fallen out when Martini searched through it. “You go on, Pouch. Sorry you had to get in the middle of this.”
“No, seriously,” he said. “We need to get the fuck out of here before they come back.”
I sighed. “They’re not coming back. They got what they came for.” I stood, slung my bag over my shoulder, then turned to face him. Pouch stood there holding the SD card. I blinked, not believing what I was seeing. “What? How did you? What?”
“I can’t turn it off,” he said apologetically. “He was there. It was in his pocket. You needed it, so . . .”
I looked at the card, at Pouch, my mouth hanging open.
“Now we need to get the hell out of here before he realizes he ain’t got it and comes back looking for it.”
I grabbed the card, then gave Pouch an overly enthusiastic buss on the cheek. “Gah! You wonderful little pickpocket, you.”
“That’s not what you said the other day when you frisked me in the street.”
“Shut up, Pouch, don’t ruin it. Run. Let’s get out of here.”
We raced for the back stairs, knocked for Turk, then ran right through his basement lair to the back alley, and sweet, sweet escape. I was back in the game, baby.
Chapter 35
Detective Hogan stared at the computer screen, at the numbers that coordinated with the vague jottings in the ledger and on the thumb drive—meaningless apart, everything when all three were viewed together.
We were in the same coffee shop where we met before at a back booth away from the rest of the diners. Hogan looked across the table at me, not happy, his laptop in front of him with the SD card in it. “You’re trying to tell me Frank Martini, a decorated detective with the Chicago Police Department, is pimping girls out of an old farm downstate?”
“Ex-detective, and don’t give me that wide-eyed disbelief, we’re not in Neverland. Look at this. Multiple payments going back years. Girls handed out like grand prizes at a county fair. All of it taking place in Pittston. One or two girls a year, off the Bettle books, nobody around to miss them or wonder where they went.”
“That still doesn’t explain how a cop gets in this.”
“I don’t know. Poole said Martini came with Shaw. I don’t know that I believe a word she says at this point, but Martini worked missing persons for years, he had to have dealt with DCFS more than once. Shaw worked there before he went to Bettle. It’s possible they came in contact.”
Hogan pushed his laptop away. He looked like he wanted to vomit. “And you say he came after this with that PI Vine?”
“Vine’s a PI in name only. I don’t even think he still has his license. He’s filth, but, yeah, him. They both came for it. They got it. I got it back.”
“How?”
I took a sip of hot cocoa. “I had a hand grenade on my side.”
Hogan blinked, confused, and let a moment go. “What?!”
“Doesn’t matter how. I got it, and I made copies, and locked them away. This is yours. They killed Tonya Pierce and Shaw, and maybe Poole, too. I haven’t been able to set eyes on her since our encounter in the lot. It’s Martini and Vine driving this thing now.”
Hogan leaned back. “They killed Pierce because she wasn’t getting with the program? And Shaw because he was flashing the money?”
“You aren’t exactly laying low driving around town in a Tesla worth a quarter of a million.”
“How’d they get away with this for so long?”
“It’s a big system. There are lot of kids and a lot of cracks.”
We both sat silently for a moment.
“Martini told me he did it for the money,” I said.
“He what?”
“He whispered it to me when he thought he had the SD card and was home free. He said, point-blank, he did it for the money.”
Hogan slid the card out of the laptop and pocketed it. He shook his head. “You go looking for a runaway and you come up with this bullshit. Son of a bitch.” He grabbed his coat, stopped. “Where’s Ramona?”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. “As far away from the three of them as I could get her, but I think it’s safe to bring her in now.” It was a text from Ramona’s burner. It read simply: Sall sw. “Hogan, wait.”
I called her number back, a sinking feeling growing, but got no answer. I sent a text replying to the one I’d gotten, but got no response to that, either.
“What is it?” Hogan asked, standing over me, the laptop under his arm.
I dialed the number again. “I don’t know.” There was no pickup. Then a call came in.
“Cassandra Raines?” It was Scoot.
“Scoot, what’s wrong?”
“They took her. Grabbed her off the street, right in front of us. Two white guys. Maybe cops?”
I was already moving, grabbing my jacket, tossing money on the table. Scoot didn’t have to say who she was or who they were. Martini and Vine had Ramona, and they were going to kill her.
“When?”
“Like just now. Like I can still smell the smoke from their van. Look, I don’t do 911 or the cops, so I’m calling you. You gotta do something.”
“Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Hogan asked when I ended the call.
“They grabbed Ramona.”
“What good’s that going to do them? We’ve got their books. And where are they going with her? Every cop in the city’s still looking for her.”
The text: Sall sw.
“Pittston. They’re taking her to Pittston.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t know that, just like I don’t know any of this is even verifiable. I’ve got to study this. Check stuff out. You’re jumping all over the place with theories.”
“Sally Sweet’s. That’s what she was trying to type in that text.” Hogan looked skeptical. “You still don’t trust me. Fine. Get out of my way, then.”
“Wait. Why Pittston? If they want her dead why not do it here, like they did Pierce?”
“I’ll ask them when I see them,” I said, brushing past him.
“I’ll call Pittston PD and see if they can assist,” Hogan said.
“Don’t. I’ve been there. The local cops practically picked my car up and threw it at the interstate. I have a feeling the cops down there know exactly what’s going, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they’re getting a cut too.” I checked my watch. It was just almost 7:00 PM. They didn’t have that big a lead. I rushed for the door. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Wait. You’re going down there solo at this hour?”
“Yes.” I pushed through the door and raced to my car, but when I unlocked it, Hogan slid into the passenger seat.
“What are you doing?”
He tapped the dashboard impatiently. “Let’s go.”
“Your badge won’t mean diddly-squat down there,” I said, starting up.
“We’ll see about that.”
I peeled away from the curb, headed for Pittston.
Chapter 36
We managed to avoid Pittston PD as we skirted the small town and got to the gate with the stone lions. I eyed the security camera, knowing we didn’t have long, then turned to Hogan. “The place is about a quarter mile past that barrier, but we’re about to have some company. Someone’s monitoring those cameras.”
“Whose place is this?”
“Apparently, the town owns it now.” I looked out the window and saw car tracks and footprints in the snow at the gate. “Someone’s been here.” I pushed the door open, hearing the faint whoop-whoop of a police siren. I turned to Hogan. “See? They’re on someone’s payroll.”
“So, how do you want to play it?”
“You stand a better chance of talking your way out of it than I would. Me? They find me here again and I’m going straight to Pittston jail.”
Hogan flicked a look in the rearview mirror, the flashing lights of the SUV just visible from down the road. It was coming fast. “Go on, then. I’ll hold off the yahoos.”
“He’s a real hard-ass. If he’s also dirty—”
Hogan looked as though I’d insulted him. “I’m CPD.”
I hesitated. “Watch your back. It’s a father-daughter team. If he’s desperate enough to do what he’s doing, he won’t hesitate to take you out to cover it up. I don’t think she’ll be much help to you.”
Hogan again checked the rearview. “You got about thirty seconds, if that.”
I got out, gave the approaching lights one last look, then bolted for the gate, climbing over it and racing up the road, my boots slipping in the snow, arms pumping. Behind me, I could hear the police SUV skidding to an urgent stop, its flashing lights bouncing blue off the snow and trees. The sound of gruff voices was the last thing I heard as I sprinted for the house, sweat already freezing to my face and body. I worried about Hogan. He was off his beat without backup. I hoped he’d be okay. I’d sent Ben a text from the car telling him where I was, Hogan had sent a similar message to Spinelli, just in case things went sideways and neither of us came back. It was added protection I hoped we wouldn’t need.
When the house came into view, I stopped to catch my breath and looked around. The lights were on inside, but there was no van out front. Maybe they’d parked it out of sight in the barn? Maybe Ramona’s text had been a ruse, and they’d taken her someplace else? What if I had gambled on Pittston and lost? If so, Ramona was as good as dead.
Whoever was inside the house knew by now there was activity at the gate. They might even have tracked me all the way up the road, though I hadn’t seen any outward signs of cameras along the path. Yet, everything around the house was eerily quiet. I kept to the tree line, pushing closer, burrowing into my jacket.
I fell back, startled, into the shadows when the front door opened suddenly and Poole rushed out, holding Ramona tightly by the arm. Ramona was pulling against the hold, trying to free herself, but Poole had her in a tight grip. They headed for the barn in a hurry, fleeing.
Martini came out next in a rush, peering into the dark, as though something might jump out at him. He’d seemed so cocky when he thought he had the SD card. Now he just looked desperate, cornered. Where were they taking Ramona? Why were they keeping her, instead of doing away with her as they had done with Tonya? What did she still have that they needed? If they got past me, would Hogan at the gate be enough to stop them from getting away? And where was Lenny? He was not someone I wanted sneaking up behind me in the dark.
Martini stood for a time staring at the stand of trees where I was hiding, as though he could sense I was there. Did he know Ramona sent me that text? Had he seen me jump out of the car at the gate? Keeping my breathing steady, my chest pressed to a cold tree, I watched Martini look for me.
If they got to the van, my odds of stopping them diminished. Plus, I would be easy to mow down. I needed to stop them here before they got to the gate. Only, I couldn’t get my frozen feet to move, or my body off the tree. And, again, where the hell was Lenny Vine?
I squinted my eyes shut and blew out a quick breath to steady myself. “Screw your courage to the sticking-place.” The words popped into my head. Shakespeare now? And Lady Macbeth at that? It was funny what the brain dredged up in moments of crisis. Useful? Hell no. But I suppose you can’t take the English major out of the PI, even at a time like this.
Martini gave up and headed toward the barn. One final peek around the tree. One more deep breath—hopefully, not my last—and then I shot out, giving up my cover, counting on the element of surprise. I ran up the slight rise toward the barn, eyes sharp, focused on Martini, who, at the last moment, saw me coming and reached behind his back for his gun. Racing toward him, I drew mine out, too.
“Martini! Don’t!”
He fired off a round. I hit the snow and flattened out, taking a quick assessment of all my body parts. He’d missed. Thank God for darkness, surprise, and the fact that Martini was likely a rusty shooter. But there was no reverb on the round. He was using a silencer. A silencer. Who did he think he was, Paulie Walnuts?
I got mad and pounded a fist into the snow, wishing I could do the same to Martini’s face. Keeping my head low, I watched him just a few feet away, his eyes scanning, looking for me, his arm straight, his gun aimed where he’d seen me last. He was waiting to take his next shot, like he was picking off jackrabbits in a field. Whatever happened next, Martini had already wrecked himself.
If I lifted my head, I was dead. If I moved, I was dead. But I had to get to the woods to stop Poole from doing whatever she had it in her mind to do. Ramona was just as great a threat to her as she was to Martini. I lay there shivering, my chin in the snow, my eyes on the debauched demon who had come to this.
“Too late, Raines,” he shouted, his booming voice bouncing off the trees. “I’ll be the last one standing.” He turned, ran for the woods.
I lifted my head up when he disappeared around the side of the house, the sound of his heavy feet echoing in the still night. I scrambled up and took off after him, with quite a distance to make up. I had to get between him and Ramona.
Chapter 37
God, it was cold. What was it? Five degrees? My body was stiff and slow to respond, my clothes wet and heavy, thanks to my snow dive. Still, legs moving, racing to catch up, like there was Olympic gold at the end of it, like the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels.
I stumbled into the thick maze of dormant trees into almost total darkness, and plastered myself, heaving, winded, behind yet another one. The moon was high in the sky, but its glow didn’t penetrate the tangle of canopy trees towering above my head, their web of brittle branches encased in layers of ice, twigs snapping and cracking in the wind, their movement casting eerie shadows on the virgin snow, thanks to a sliver of murky moonlight that had made it past the branches. I was a good distance from the house—no barn, no van, no gate, no Hogan. Trying to orient myself, I calculated the main road was at least a mile north, the back road maybe that far south. This was the perfect spot, out of the way, for Martini and Poole to run their operation. Who would know? Who would see or care what went on?
