Authors: Eric Pete

Frostbite (19 page)

BOOK: Frostbite

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“Frisco PD. Officer Kane,” he answered over the buzz of activity in the background.

“Desk duty already? Can’t keep you down, huh?” I joked as I sat cloaked in a hoodie and sunglasses at Five Star Coffee & Espresso in Severn, Maryland, my phone call to Texas having been routed through three different countries. Had just flown into BWI after a brief layover in Miami. No plans on getting a hotel room for this trip. Was running lean for what I was doing.

“It was an undisplaced fracture. Thanks for asking,” Officer Kane spat. “Can’t drive for a while because of the cast, but I’ll take that over being six feet under.”

“No respect for the badge these days. Did you get the license plate?” I asked, continuing with the small talk in case his calls were being monitored at the station.

“Course not. Caught me right as I turned my back to get in my car. Then avoided my dash cam. Like it was intentional.”

“Imagine that. Crazy people, I tell ya. How’s the Mrs.?”

“Good. All good. I’m hoping you called to tell me the streets are safe again for folk,” he commented, referring to the outstanding threat on Collette’s life by Mr. Smith.

“I’m working hard on cleaning them. Gutters and drains too. Which is why I called.”

“The purse?” he asked, referring to the gift I’d left him at our last meeting. The one where he’d drawn his gun on me.

“Actually it’s a clutch, but yes,” I said, correcting him about the woman’s accessory. Had tossed it into his police car as I drove by. Left it wrapped in a plastic bag with a note attached. Note asked Kane to discretely run any prints he might find on the surface, a surface specially prepared so as to register under a black light any hands that might have touched it. Such as the fingers of a flirtatious Mr. Smith at Mickey Mantle’s in Oklahoma City. One of the few times he was particularly careless. But I’d handpicked the blonde for that job. Was a dancer for the Oklahoma City Thunder. Told her I was a grad assistant at OU filming a scene for a college film project. She performed her role flawlessly.

“Got a match,” Kane said under his breath. “Virginia driver’s license. Centreville. Had a DUI two years ago. Is this him?”

“No, but getting closer,” I lied. Kane had a mad-on for him, especially after the broken leg, but vengeance was going to be mine. I already knew Mr. Smith frequented the DC-Maryland-Virginia area, or the “DMV” as the locals called it, based on the cell phone tower info I already had. That’s why I was out here. Fishing and hoping I’d land the big one. But now, like a guided missile, I had a target lit up like a Christmas tree for me.

Time to go boom.

“Can you e-mail the info?” I asked Kane.

“Yeah. How soon do you need it?”

“Now would be good as I’m kinda on the clock,” I stressed, gulping down the last of my cup of coffee as I prepared to head over to Virginia.

I hunkered down outside the Whole Foods Market off Fair Lakes Parkway in Fairfax, Virginia. His voice mail to his wife said he was stopping here after work. Of course, he didn’t specify which Whole Foods, but I picked the closest one to their home. Watching everyone who entered.

Of course, if he didn’t show up, I knew where to find him now. Had been pulling up the driver’s license photo from Kane on my phone again and again all afternoon. And moving my car around on the parking lot lest someone monitoring the surveillance cameras at this new location got suspicious.

Wondered if this was how he felt when he stopped a whole plane for me in Chicago. Probably felt pretty smug looking at me on a monitor somewhere while barking out orders to people who had no clue how badly he was abusing his power.

At 3:47
P.M.
, I got lucky. And someone got unlucky. Watched him enter the store with his cell to his ear. Probably still trying to reach his wife. I got out the Chrysler 300 in a Georgetown T-shirt and sweatpants with non-descript white Nike tennis shoes.

Oh. And a pair of gloves.

Followed my subject inside the bastion of the overly pretentious P.C. and the annoyingly healthy, first to the floral department where he grabbed a batch of fresh roses. Either for his wife or another mistress. Being so close to his home in Centreville, figured it was for the Mrs.

This time.

Smooth devil.

Hair was still stringy, but haircut was recent. Jacket was on his arm with white dress shirt’s sleeves rolled up as he shopped. Was missing the distinct walk he exhibited back at Midway. No combat injury like I’d thought. He was just a performer like me.

Next stop was wine where he chatted up a fine sister with twists about a nice, full-bodied red while I enjoyed a free sample of pinot noir nearby courtesy of one of the store’s team members.

As he found his way to the pasta section, imagined he planned a romantic meal, along with the flowers, to make up for something he’d done. Maybe for the long hours he was putting in at Langley. Or maybe long schlong he was putting in someone else.

I gave up wasting thoughts on his life. Because even though he didn’t know it yet, as of this morning, it had suddenly changed.

I approached him from one end of the aisle once we were alone. Just as he was filling a clear plastic container with rigatoni. While he bent over, fumbling with the release on the pasta, I spoke.

“You got it there, buddy?” I asked cordial enough in a faux Midwestern voice meant to disarm.

“Yeah,” he spouted, focused on the task at hand. “My wife likes the shit at this store, so I’m making concessions. I’m more a steak ’n’ potatoes kinda guy.”

“I hear ya,” I commented with a jocular chuckle. “Tell me, do you know if this entire section is gluten free?”

“You’ve got me there, pal,” he said, satisfied with a full container as he finally turned to engage me. No armed security this time. And no me being at a disadvantage.

As his smiled morphed into a sour pucker, his eyes said it all.

“Hello, Nathan,” I offered. My smile was still there.

“You,” he hissed, his voice cracking unintentionally. “How ... how?”

“Sometimes when you yank on a tiger’s tail, you get bit,” I said to Nathan Piatkowski of Tannerhouse Way in Centreville. Just before I smashed him in the face with a palm thrust followed by a spinning backfist that connected just behind his ear. Left the no longer mysterious Mr. Smith sprawled on the floor of the whole grains aisle in a creation of red wine and rigatoni al dente.

I exited the store at a brisk clip before anyone could call the cops on me. Back in my car, I drove around the side of Dick’s Sporting Goods and parked once again. Opened a secure line on my phone where I sent an attachment to my
ghost in the machine
at 4Shizzle then messaged her.

Promised u a story, I typed.

This ain’t my usual. But damn ...
Just need u 2 wait b4 u post.
When?
Soon. Will get back 2 u.

I left Virginia, pleased with results so far. Drove into DC where I decided to dine at Georgia Brown’s, having run on fumes since yesterday. Sat outside along Fifteenth Street Northwest waiting on my jerked catfish under the lights as the sun had retreated somewhere far west of the city.

Enough time had elapsed to call him on the cell phone I’d left inside his townhome. A townhome that was missing his wife, Sara, a school teacher at Ormond Stone Middle School, and their young son, Slade.

Wondered how many times he’d broken down crying since rushing home from Whole Foods and finding them missing. Wanted that despair to fester.

“Hello!” he yelled desperately as he answered on the second ring.

“Nathan, do I have your attention?” I calmly asked.

And here came my jerked catfish meal.

Arrived at the Port of Baltimore. Shipping vessels stacked with cargo and containers reminding me of season two of
The Wire.
I drove along looking for a particular warehouse, a good sign that they all started looking the same after awhile. Would make it a little harder for the former Mr. Smith if he grew a pair, came clean with his employer and decided to use his resources to find his family. But he wasn’t going to do that. Not just yet.

Took it as a compliment that he feared me and what I might be capable of.

Still, I had other things with which to attend.

Like Sophia.

“Truth, what the fuck are you up to?” she asked.

“Kinda in the middle of something. Can we talk later?” I pushed back, knowing what the call was about.

“Look, I’m getting tired of you brushing me off. Ivan’s dead, Truth.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked straight-faced as I drove up to the warehouse I was looking for.

“He’s dead. In New Orleans. Fuckin’ dead,” she groaned.

“What was he doing there? It’s not Mardi Gras ... or Southern Decadence,” I dryly joked.

“You tell me. I know you had something to do with it, you bastard!” Sophia screamed. Wincing, I pulled my Bluetooth away from my ear.

“Now you’re sounding paranoid. I’m not even in New Orleans. And I’m busy trying to stay alive, I can promise you that. Look ... let me finish this then you’ll have my undivided attention. See if we can figure this out,” I offered.

“You promise?”

“Yes. Now I’ll talk to you later. Be strong. Ivan would want that,” I said, hearing those gunshots on the Algiers Ferry again. Most of NOPD’s investigation would hit a dead end with them left to surmise Ivan was paid by Braxton Lewis’s people.

I got out the car and knocked on the office door. Kept to the side in case somebody felt like shooting. Didn’t know them like that to fully trust, but I was pressed for time when I called it in.

“
Que es?
” the voice barked in Spanish from behind the thick metal door.

“I brought lunch. Nathan’s,” I replied, the irony of the name being the same as Mr. Smith’s real moniker unintentional.

The door came unlocked amid a shriek of metal on metal. A man in a black leather coat with a mask resting atop his head smiled, taking the bag of hot dogs and fries from me as he looked to make sure I was alone.

“Any problems?” I asked as I warily entered.

“Nah. They in there,” he replied as he locked and bolted the door behind me, cocking his head in the direction of another room.

Four men with the distinct clown masks pulled over their faces saw me, talking among themselves before three left the other with their guests and came over. Clear of being identified, they removed their masks.

“Thank you,” I said to them as they all took turns welcoming me to their little slice of heaven on the dock. Then hurried over to the hot dogs ’n’ stuff.

“Oh,” the second one, who looked to be Dominican, grunted as he remembered something. “This is for you,” he said as he planted the digital recorder in my hand.

I pressed play, listening for a voice. “Perfect,” I uttered, satisfied with what I heard. “Did you let that stuff slip out like I asked?”

“Yeah, yeah. And she was listenin’ too,” he volunteered. “Are you really the dude that found that fuckin’ child molester for Arturo?” he asked, referring to his boss Arturo Diaz, the welterweight champion of the world.

“Nah. I just work for him. Like y’all do for Diaz,” I lied.

“Man. You stupid,” one of the other men chided him. “You know he ain’t gonna be here for this.”

“Can I borrow one of those?” I asked, referring to their clown masks. With a shrug, one was tossed into my hands as they continued to gorge on the hotdogs. Arturo’s boy who was still on guard threw a mock salute at his fellow clown as I walked over. In a chair positioned in the corner was Sara Piatkowski, bound and blindfolded. Had her son Slade locked in another room with a Nintendo Wii and no restraints. I’d lured them from their house yesterday, claiming I worked with Nathan in town and that he’d been in a bad accident. Kept the neighbors disarmed too rather than having a van full of goons roll up and remove them forcibly. Let that part come later when we were down the road.

“How much longer?” my fellow clown asked, his voice muffled, but still revealing a heavy New York accent.

“Soon,” I calmly replied.

I wandered off deeper into the warehouse, ready to indeed end it. While out of view, I removed the mask and placed a call to someone anxious to hear from me.

“Nathan, how’d you sleep?” I taunted upon his answering.

“Fuck you, nigger,” he spat. I doubted his racist tendencies surfaced while he was impregnating Bricks’s stripper sister down in NOLA. But I kept that knowledge to myself.

Rather than engage in name calling, I placed the digital recorder to the phone.

“Please. Please. I don’t want to die!” his wife’s recorded voice screamed. Pitch perfect before I ended the recording with a click.

“So ... what’s it going to be?” I asked Mr. Piatkowski, the man who just listened to his wife’s pleas in stunning digital clarity.

“Now look here ...”

“Don’t stall. You’ll only make it worse for her. And your kid.”

“I’ll kill you! I swear to God, I will—”

“Do what I say. You will do what I say,” I uttered, completing his statement for him.

I checked my watch while he came to grips with his new reality. Just in case he was trying to track me through cell towers like I’d done back in the Pacific Northwest.

“Okay. Okay. How can I trust you?” he asked.

“You can’t,” I said calmly. “No one can trust me. But I did tell you that I don’t work for free. I did my part in New Orleans, now I want to be compensated.”

“I haven’t received confirmation the DA’s dead. Only that there was a shooting.”

“Spin,” I said succinctly. “I assure you Rodney Roy won’t be magically gracing any cameras in our lifetime. Now about my compensation.” What I was doing with Nathan’s family would keep him off his game. Less concerned with his reasons for hiring me and my results. Instead, more focused on just getting through this with his wife and child safely home.

“How do I know you won’t kill them if I do this?” he asked. Legit question.

“Because I didn’t take you out yesterday when I could’ve. And because I’m only asking for one hundred grand. Something I know you can quickly pull together from whatever accounts you fund your little covert war games around the world. Small price to pay for keeping your job ... and getting your family back unharmed. Then we never hear from one another again.”

Silence.

“Tick tock, Mr. Piatkowski,” I mocked. Felt marvelous turning that back on him.

“You win,” he said. “I’ll get your money.”

“Excellent. Know that was hard for you to say. You’ll receive your instructions for my money shortly. Don’t fuck it up.”

I hung up, removing the battery and SIM card. Lowered my borrowed mask once again as I returned to where Mrs. Piatkowski was being held. Needed to see her up close. Stood there for a minute before the blindfolded school teacher possessed of curly brown hair and slight frame. Let her sense my presence yet not know what I was about to do. Yanked her blindfold off, watching her flinch and blink at the sudden intrusion of light into her eyes. And as things came into focus, let the scary clown mask fill her entire field of vision.

Didn’t say anything at first. Just kept canting my head as I let the creepiness set in, my shallow breathing my only sound.

Spitting at me, she finally shrieked, “You monster! What ... what do you want?”

“Your husband knows what we want, Mrs. Piatkowski. But ... for some reason, it seems he doesn’t really care about your well-being,” I began to spin from beneath my clown mask. With what she conveniently
overheard
earlier and now this ...

This was going to be sweet.

So sweet.

BOOK: Frostbite

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