Authors: Rayven T. Hill
Captive Justice: A Private Investigator Mystery Series (A Jake & Annie Lincoln Thriller Book 4) (15 page)
The ceiling creaked. She looked up into dust, released as the ceiling settled. The bottom of the pole was loosened and another heave or two would swing it free. The top of the pole was still fastened to the rotting beams, but the screws at one edge had begun to work loose.
It was now or never.
Her rubber soles increased the friction as she dug in her heals, bent her knees, took a deep breath and heaved.
A scrape. A creak. She groaned. Then timber crackled and the pole broke free and dragged her to the floor, her arms still behind her back.
The ceiling had bowed and she heard the squeal of wood against wood as the floor above her settled.
She slipped her tied wrists down the pole and off the end and then crouched and swung her hands under her feet and in front of her. Her wrists were still tied, but she was otherwise free.
The ceiling groaned again.
Footsteps sounded above. Running. A shout.
She dove for the corner. The ceiling was coming down and that was the safest place.
Like Samson, she’d brought down the column where she’d been bound, but she hoped that unlike Samson, she wouldn’t have sacrificed herself in the process.
She lay in a fetal position, her face to the wall, her hands protecting her head, as broken floorboards and what had once been a ceiling, crashed and settled around her.
Friday, September 2nd, 12:25 PM
JAKE STILL hadn’t heard back from Walter Coleman regarding the return of Rosemary. He feared the worst, sure now she wouldn’t be returned alive. The fact she’d tried to escape and had seen the face of one of the kidnappers didn’t bode well for her.
He gave Coleman a quick call to find out if he’d heard from his wife.
He hadn’t.
“I was about to call the police,” Coleman said. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“They’ll want a statement from both of us,” Jake said. “Why don’t I swing by and pick you up and we’ll run down to the station?”
Coleman agreed. Jake hadn’t talked to Hank since the press conference the day before, so he called to see if Hank was available. The detective was on the road but would meet them at the precinct in fifteen minutes.
Jake poked his head into the office where Annie was going over some notes. He explained the situation to her. “Maybe you should come along,” he said.
“I’ll be there in one minute.”
“And bring the kidnapper’s note.” Jake pointed toward the desk. “It’s in the top drawer.”
He grabbed his keys and went outside to warm up the Firebird. Annie joined him a minute later and they roared from the driveway.
Coleman was waiting at the curb when they arrived at his house. Jake climbed out to let Coleman into the back seat and in five minutes they arrived at the precinct.
Hank was at his desk, his head in some papers, and he glanced up when they approached.
“This is Walter Coleman,” Jake said, motioning with his hand.
Hank half-rose from his seat, shook Coleman’s hand and waved toward a pair of chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Coleman and Annie sat while Jake found another stray chair, dragged it over and plopped into it.
Hank closed the file folder, pushed it aside and looked back and forth from Jake to Coleman. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s my wife,” Coleman said. “She’s been kidnapped.”
Hank leaned forward and dropped his arms on the desk, a frown on his face. “Kidnapped?”
Between Jake and Coleman they managed to fill Hank in on the details.
“I was hesitant to come to the police,” Coleman said. “But I’m afraid for her life.”
“And you said there was a witness at the bank?”
Coleman nodded. “At least one. A security guard. Perhaps more.”
Hank swung his chair and faced his computer monitor. He tapped a few keys and whistled. “There was a report of a mugging in front of the Commerce Bank this morning. The call came in at 10:28. The victim and the assailant are both listed as unknown. Officers interviewed a loan officer, as well as a security guard who chased the suspect.”
“I didn’t stay around after I read the note. I didn’t want the police involved until my wife returned home.”
“And the note?”
Jake slipped a zip-lock bag from his pocket and handed it to Hank. “We didn’t touch it, so if there’s any fingerprints on that, other than Mr. Coleman’s, then—”
“I’ll get it to the lab right away. In the meantime, I’ll need a complete statement from all of you and don’t spare the details.” Hank turned to Jake. “I assume you recorded the calls?”
Jake nodded. “As always.”
“I’ll need those too.”
~~*~~
AFTER COLEMAN and the Lincolns left, Hank made a copy of everything that pertained to both kidnappings, tucked it all into a file folder and tapped on Diego’s open door. “Got a minute, Captain?”
Diego looked up and beckoned him in.
Hank sat in the guest chair. “We have another kidnapping,” he said, as he dropped the file in front of the captain. “It’s all in there.”
Diego sighed and flipped open the folder. “I hope we don’t have another body.”
“Not yet, but I’m afraid there might be.”
Diego worked a crick out of his neck. “Then why’re you hanging around here? Get on it.”
“This might be time-sensitive and I need some more officers. The victim might have been kidnapped while out jogging yesterday morning. I need some guys to comb the area, interview the neighbors, etcetera.”
“Whoever is not doing anything that’s of dire importance you can have.” Diego leaned forward. “Whatever it takes to catch these people, I’m behind you. We don’t want any more victims. The press is raking us over the coals right now and the mayor is after my butt.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Hank said, as he stood. “I’ll get right on it.”
Diego waved toward the door. “Go. Get out of here.”
Friday, September 2nd, 12:30 PM
ROSEMARY COLEMAN’S eyelids fluttered as she regained consciousness. At first, she didn’t remember where she was and then the awful truth of her predicament hit her. She was still a captive.
She must have been knocked out when the ceiling gave way. The back of her head was aching and with her fingers, she felt a lump had risen. It wasn’t bleeding but it was tender to the touch.
She didn’t know how long she’d been lying there, perhaps a few minutes, perhaps longer, and when her senses finally returned, she rolled over carefully and inspected her situation. A part of the ceiling had fallen and barricaded her in behind the rotting boards. The dust still settled around the bits of broken timber that surrounded her.
She stopped breathing as she heard a sound, like the sound of footsteps on stairs. Whoever was up there was coming down, looking for her.
“Where are you, Mrs. Coleman?” The voice was mocking her.
She looked around frantically. A length of solid wood, a couple of feet long, lay at her feet. It was difficult with her hands still tied, but she managed to twist her body around, stretch, and retrieve the sturdy board. She gripped it in both hands and hefted it. It weighed a few pounds and would do as a weapon. It had to do.
“I’m over here,” she called. “Behind the floorboards. I’m trapped.”
He laughed, still mocking. “I thought you might’ve been hurt. That would be a shame.”
With barely room enough to maneuver, she crawled to her knees and held the weapon, waiting, afraid and desperate.
“I can’t move. Please help me.”
She heard the creak of boards and the crunch of feet on debris as he drew closer. The wood forming the barricade moved as he worked it loose. She twisted around to shield the weapon from his view as he groaned and dragged a large chunk of the barricade aside.
“So, there you are,” he said, as he leaned over and his face appeared, glaring through the large space he’d managed to clear. His sickening grin was so close she smelled his foul breath.
She gripped the weapon, held her breath, adrenaline pumping, and drove the board like a battering ram. It connected with his forehead, knocking his head back. He let out a whoosh of air and fell sideways, stunned.
Still holding the weapon, she squirmed from the space and whacked him again before he could recover. She heard a sickening crunch and realized she might’ve broken his nose.
Her anger welled up inside. Anger from the hours, the days, of capture and fright she’d endured, all came out in a torrent as she continued to batter his face, over and over. She finally sank down, exhausted and panting, her emotion spent, and observed the results of her now depleted rage.
His face was a mess, blood flowing from his nose and forehead, but he was alive. He moved his head, groaned, his vacant eyes staring up at her. Then his head dropped to one side, he closed his eyes and lay still, his breathing rasping and shallow.
He wasn’t going to harm her any more. She’d made sure of that.
And then it finally hit her; she was alive and relatively unharmed. And free.
She tossed her weapon aside, stumbled to her feet and looked at her surroundings. A large portion of the center of the ceiling had collapsed, drawing garbage from upstairs and ceiling debris with it. The stairs against the far wall seemed to have escaped damage.
She took one last glance at her former captor and picked her way across the litter-strewn floor to the stairs to freedom. She tested the first step. It seemed to be solid, so she carefully made her way up and stepped onto what was left of the floor.
The room where she’d been held constituted only a portion of the entire basement. Most of the upper floor was intact, and to her left was the back door where she’d almost escaped before.
She skirted around the caved-in floor and made her way to the back of the room.
She wished she’d checked her attacker to see if he had a cell phone. Too late now. She wasn’t about to go back down there. She would have to find a phone elsewhere.
She slid the bolt back on the metal door and ground it open. The fresh air welcomed her and she breathed it in, taking deep breaths. She was going to make it this time.
She hurried into the narrow alleyway and ran to the left, circled around a blue van, past the rear of other boarded-up buildings and finally stepped onto the sidewalk of a narrow side street. Except for the occasional well-used car parked along the curb, litter and waste rattling in the gutter, and someone on a bicycle pedaling the other direction, the street was empty.
The back of her head throbbed but she ignored the pain and hurried to the intersection. This street didn’t look much different, no one in sight. She wasn’t familiar with this part of the city, but there must be someone around somewhere.
Traffic hummed to her right so she ran that way, toward a main thoroughfare. A man shuffled her way, a cell phone jammed in his ear, intent on his conversation.
She approached him.
“Please, may I borrow your phone? This is an emergency.”
The man slowed, eyed her filthy clothing, her matted hair, her bruised face, and hurried past.
She glanced up the street. A taxi was coming, its vacant sign glowing. She stepped off the curb, into the street and held up her hand. Tires squealed and the cab ground to a halt.
The cabbie jabbed his horn angrily, leaning out the window. “Get out of the way, you maniac.”
She didn’t move. The driver stepped halfway from the cab and glared at her, aggravated.
“Please, I need your help,” she said. “I’ve been kidnapped. I need to call the police.”
He frowned at her a moment and then his face softened and he nodded slowly. “Alright,” he said.
Friday, September 2nd, 12:45 PM
HANK PARKED HIS CHEVY in front of the Commerce Bank and went through the revolving doors. He glanced around the main area. Tellers were busy trying to pare down a long line of fidgeting customers. Faint music sounded somewhere overhead. A security guard leaned against the wall near an office doorway, his arms folded above his ample belly, a bored look on his face. Everything seemed to be business as usual.
Hank approached the security guard and showed his badge. “I’m Detective Corning. Are you the guard who chased the robber this morning?”
The security guard bounced off the wall, stood straight, his arms still folded, and nodded. “Yup. Almost caught him too, but he slipped away.” He offered his hand. “I’m Zeke Chalker.”
Hank shook the guard’s hand and then slipped out a well-worn notepad and thumbed to an empty page. “Did you get a good look at him?”
Chalker shrugged. “Big bushy beard. Average height. Average weight. Didn’t see him up close. He was already running away when I got there. I already told all this to the officers that came.”
“I realize that,” Hank said. “But I need to hear it first hand.”
“Of course. I know that. I was going to be a cop.” He shrugged again. “Didn’t make the cut. You know how it is.”
Hank suspected he knew how it was. If you weren’t willing to apply yourself and get in shape, there’s no room for you in the academy.
The guard continued, “I chased him up the street and into the alleyway and then when he fired at me, I had to duck for cover. He barely missed me and I didn’t want to take any chances. By the time I was able to give chase again, he was gone onto the next street and I couldn’t catch him.”
“Did you see him after that? Did you see which way he went?” Hank asked.
Chalker shook his head. “By the time I got there he was gone. Maybe had a car waiting or something, or ducked into a building, but that was the last I saw of him.”
Hank scribbled in his pad and then asked, “Did you see what he was wearing?”
“Just blue jeans and a black t-shirt.”
“Shoes?”
“Not sure. Maybe running shoes. I didn’t get a good look.”