Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (46 page)

He tilted his head and fixed her with a curious, but not unkind, look.

She stared back at him, defiant, daring him to call her out.

Instead, he stooped to pick up the stone. “Here you go,” he said, dropping it into her open palm and giving her a crooked smile.

“Thanks.” Her fist closed around the cool rock.

“You look tired. Are you trying to make a midnight filing deadline?”

“Not anymore—I just filed it. You, too?”

She checked her watch. If so, he’d better hurry. He had one minute.

“Even worse. Writing a white paper.”

She scrunched up her face in empathy.

As she was learning firsthand, there was plenty of grunt work involved in being an Assistant United States Attorney. But writing white papers that set forth the government’s positions on various legal matters was quite possibly the most thankless of all the mundane tasks performed by the cadre of AUSA’s who served in the Department of Justice.

For one thing, the position papers had to be perfect, beyond reproach by any legal scholar or desperate litigant. For another, they weren’t bylined, so the author received exactly no credit for writing one. And, finally, they weren’t optional. Everyone was expected to pitch in and produce a white paper when called upon to do so.

And in Sid’s division, no reason was good enough to beg off—not being in the middle of a trial, out on maternity leave, or simply devoid of even a scrap of familiarity about the topic. When

Sid said it was your turn, you dropped what you were doing and wrote a white paper. Simple as that.

“Ugh,” she said in solidarity.

“You can say that again. I’ve had back-to-back depositions all week. And, of course, this thing is due by the end of the day tomorrow. I’ve just gotta crank it out.” He smiled ruefully at his bad luck.

She tried not to notice that he had a very warm smile. Some people might even call it sexy.

“Well … good luck,” she said in an obvious and awkward attempt to get him to return to his drudgery so she could pack up and go home for some much-needed sleep.

Mitchell either couldn’t take a hint, or he chose to ignore the one she lobbed his way.

“You know, actually, it’s nearly midnight. I’m pretty sure I’ve reached the point of diminishing returns. Let’s grab a drink and kvetch about our lot in life in nicer surroundings? I know a really good wine bar near Chinatown.”

Her spine stiffened. Her palms grew damp. She forced herself to meet his eyes.

“Thanks, but I’ll have to pass. I don’t drink.”

He just grinned.

“Do you eat?”

CHAPTER TWO

Three days earlier

Franklin Chang came home from work at the usual time and let himself in through the front door. He stamped the fine dusting of snow off his shoes and dropped his briefcase to the floor. It was only Monday but he was already bone-tired. He’d spent his entire weekend switching over the federal district court’s computer database to a new system and then the whole day dealing with irate court clerks because some underling had failed to check the box to turn on electronic notifications.

He opened his mouth to yell to his mother to let her know both that he was home and that she’d left the door unlocked again. She didn’t seem to grasp the fact that he had literally hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of the latest technology crammed into the little starter home. He loved the neighborhood, which was why he hadn’t moved someplace posh outside the Beltway, but he didn’t intend to bankroll the local juvenile delinquents with a steady supply of easily pawned equipment.

The words never came. He gaped, open-mouthed at the picture frame hanging at a wild tilt in the foyer, the overturned side table, the smashed lamp.

He tripped over the briefcase and ran toward the back of the house. He raced through the ranch house, room by room. His tiny, tidy house had been ransacked, but nothing was missing. Except his mother.

A trail of blood stained the tile in the hall bathroom. It led from the bathroom, down the narrow hallway, through the kitchen, and out the back door. It stopped at the edge of the alley—right where a person might park a car if they didn’t want to be seen from the street.

He dismissed the thought and tried to convince himself that she’d fallen and had summoned help. But that possibility rang hollow even to him. If she’d been injured, he’d have been the first person she called. And even if, for some reason, she’d called a friend or a neighbor instead, someone would have gotten in touch with him. He checked his phone with trembling fingers: no messages; no missed calls.

After he stopped shaking, he went outside and canvassed door to door. No one in the quiet, close-in neighborhood had seen either his mother or anything out of the ordinary. Hyattsville, Maryland wasn’t one of those crime-ridden areas where people kept to themselves and closed their eyes to the violence around them, either. His neighbors were always outside, doing yard work, walking their dogs, or generally getting into one another’s business. The local kids played stickball in the street and sat on the curb to eat empanadas from the Salvadoran place down the road. Someone should have seen
something
.

But it was as if she’d vanished into thin air.

As the minutes ticked into hours, his anxiety sky-rocketed and he found himself nibbling on the skin near his thumb. He sat out on the porch, shivering in the cold night air, as if his presence outside would somehow make his mother return.

An arc of headlights washed over him, as the woman who lived directly across the street turned into her driveway. She emerged from the car and began gathering armloads of groceries from the trunk. Seeing Mrs. Johnson jolted him to action.

He chewed off the flap of flesh and crossed the street, very aware of his stinging skin as he walked.

After helping her carry the bags into her house, he stood there awkwardly while she thanked him and tried to shoo him back out the door.

Finally, he kicked at her scuffed linoleum and cleared his throat. “Uh, is Tyrone home?”

She jerked a thumb toward the den, where the television blared, and shouted, “Tyrone, Mr. Chang from across the way wants a word.”

She turned back to Franklin. “I’m gonna get out of this work uniform. He’ll be right with you.” She eyed the bags on the counter, waiting to be unloaded. “You want anything?”

“No, thanks.” He smiled in what he hoped was a casual way.

She examined his face for a long moment and then headed up the stairs. As the sound of her footsteps faded, Patrolman Tyrone Johnson emerged from the den. He cut a massive, hulking figure, even in a plain white t-shirt and his uniform pants.

“You want one?” Tyrone raised a beer can in Franklin’s direction.

“Um … no thanks. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you. I just need some help.”

Tyrone’s relaxed face hardened into an unreadable expression. “What’d you do?”

“Nothing! I swear—my mom’s missing.”

“Missing how? Like, she’s late getting back from her book club or something?”

“Missing like there’s blood all over my house and no trace of her. As far as I know, her book club doesn’t meet this week. Neither does her card club or her knitting club. She should have been home watching her Downton Abbey videos. The whole season’s due back at the library tomorrow.” He realized he was babbling but seemed unable to stop the words that were tumbling out of his mouth.

“Doubtin’ Who?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Should I file a report?”

Tyrone painted him with an exasperated look. “Don’t you watch TV, man? She’s an adult. Until she’s gone for twenty-four hours, we can’t do shit. Come on,” he said, shrugging into a plaid flannel shirt.

“Where are we going?”

“The police can’t do anything, but you can. We’re going to check the local hospitals, clinics, and bars.”

“Bars?”

“Your ma’s no spring chicken. You’d be surprised how many of these old folks have an episode and wander off and you find them sitting on a barstool, talking the bartender’s ear off.”

“My mom has a glass of sherry at the holidays. Maybe some wine out at a restaurant. That’s it.”

“Whatever.” He laced up his boots then turned and bellowed up the stairs, “Gloria, I’m goin’ out for a bit with Franklin. You see his ma’, call my cell. You hear?”

Above, a bedroom door creaked open. “Hear? The whole street heard you, you fool.” The door banged shut.

Franklin spent the next hour on an awkward scavenger hunt with his taciturn neighbor. He was glad for the company, even though their search proved futile. Somehow, Tyrone’s hulking, silent presence settled Franklin’s nerves.

Tyrone dropped him off with instructions to call the station the next day and ask for the missing person’s desk. Franklin stood on the porch and watched him cross the street back to his house.

“Mom?” he called as he walked inside. A blanket of silence that greeted him. His panic came rushing back in a wave, and he paced around the living room.

Where was she? Was she hurt?

Franklin’s cell phone vibrated to life in his pocket. He checked the display.
Unknown caller.

“Hello? Mom? Where are you?”

An unfamiliar voice said, “No. This isn’t your mother, Franklin. Listen very carefully. Go to your mailbox and remove a gift I left you. Turn it on.”

“Who is this?” he’d demanded to an empty line. The caller had already hung up.

Feeling numb, Franklin walked out onto his porch. Inside the metal mailbox, he found a cheap flip phone—the kind of prepaid phone that bodegas all over the city sold to illegal immigrants who couldn’t contract for service with any of the major carriers.

He stepped back inside then powered it on. It began to ring immediately, and he nearly dropped it in surprise.

“H-h-hello?” he stammered, unable to keep the nerves out of his voice.

“I have your mother. She is unharmed. For now.”

“You have her? Who is this?”

“That is not your concern.”

“Wait, you’re lying. You hurt her. There’s blood all over my house.”

A put-upon sigh sounded in his ear. “An unfortunate accident. She panicked and fell. She hit her chin on the corner of the sink. This cut, it bled copiously, but it was a superficial wound. You may ask her yourself.”

There was a pause and a muffled noise, then Franklin heard his mother’s voice.

“Franklin, is that you?”

“Mom, yes, it’s me! Are you okay?”

His mother answered in a careful voice. “I’m fine, honey. I don’t know what this gentleman wants you do to, but he says if you do as you’re told, he’ll bring me home.” He heard the tears she tried to choke back. “Please do what he says.”

“I love you, Mom. I’ll find you,” he managed before the man’s voice came back on the line.

“You will not find her,” the man assured him. “You will never see her alive again unless you follow my instructions to the letter. I will be in touch when I need you.”

CHAPTER THREE

12:02 a.m. Friday

Franklin punched ten memorized digits into the prepaid cell phone with shaking fingers then wiped his sweaty hands on the thighs of his khakis. While the call connected, he swallowed several times in a futile attempt to wet his very dry mouth.