Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (62 page)

“Aroostine something or other. I’ve overheard him talking to Franklin. He wants her to throw some case.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Aroostine paced in a tight circle. The guy on the phone had said he’d meet her at the ice rink at the National Gallery of Art’s Sculpture Garden. The gallery and the gardens closed at five o’clock, so she loitered around outside the Constitution Avenue entrance to the skating rink and worried that he’d go to the Madison Drive entrance instead.

She pulled the glove from her right hand and swiped her finger across her phone to unlock the display. She redialed the last number she’d called and hurriedly jammed her cold fingers back into the glove.

The sun had set while she’d been on the Metro, and she’d emerged to find the temperature had fallen at least ten degrees. The chill didn’t seem to be deterring the skating masses, though.

Groups of squealing, helmeted kids, some of them pushing chairs or clinging to the rails, circled around the rink. Serious enthusiasts weaved around them in graceful loops. And laughing, pink-cheeked lovers skated by hand in hand.

A memory flashed through her mind: Joe’s hand, firm in his leather gloves, gripping her own mittened hand, as he guided her unsteadily around the frozen lake behind what would later become their house. She was twenty-two and had never ice skated in her life. His footing was sure; his voice amused and encouraging in her ear.

She blinked away tears and focused on listening to the ringing phone.
Keep it together.

There was no answer and no option to leave a voicemail. The phone just continued to ring and somehow the sound grew louder. She could hear the ringtone both through her phone’s speaker and over her shoulder.

She turned.

She didn’t know how she expected the man to look. Tough. Enigmatic. Unkind, maybe. She certainly didn’t expect what she found: a pale Asian man, his shoulders stooped and his back hunched as if he were trying to fold into himself and disappear. The man turned off his phone and shoved it into the pocket of his navy peacoat. He turned his collar up against the wind and smoothed his hand through his too-long hair, swiping his bangs out of his eyes and blinking nervously at her.

He was not fat, not thin. But he was soft, out of shape. A sedentary cubical dweller. Maybe a snacker, too.

She pushed down her nerves and smoothed her face into an expectant expression. This was his party.

He stared at her for a moment longer then cleared his throat.

“Uh, hi,” he stammered.

She raised a brow. “Hello.”

Another throat-clearing noise. Then he gestured over his shoulder.

“There’s a cafe. Do you want to get some coffee?”

“Well, I don’t want to ice skate.”

He half-chuckled and swallowed his laugh.

She hadn’t been trying to be funny. She felt awkward meeting strangers—let alone strangers who were involved in her husband’s abduction and were trying to convince her to violate her ethical obligations as an attorney. She’d just blurted out the first response that had popped into her mind.

He made a sweeping motion with his hand, as if to say ‘after you.’

She headed for the entrance to the fenced-in Sculpture Garden and passed between two marble plinths that led into the garden. She was very conscious of the man following right behind her, so close on her heels that she could hear his choppy breathing, fast and shallow.

They entered the cafe and a burst of hot air enveloped her. She found a table near the windows and slung her bag over one of the chairs.

He unbuttoned his coat and blew into his hands.

“So, uh, can I get you a coffee?” he asked.

“I’ll get my own drink. Thanks.”

The awkwardness was excruciating—worse than a first date.

She dug out her wallet and walked up the counter. He jogged along beside her.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.”

She stopped and whirled to face him.

He coughed into his hand then said, “I’m not a bad guy. I swear.”

She stared hard at him. His shy eyes. The dark, deep circles that ringed them. His hunched, cowering posture.

He didn’t
look
like a bad guy. He looked like a victim. A sudden swell of sympathy rose in her chest.

“I’m not saying you’re a bad guy. I can just buy my own drink. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He dropped her gaze and shuffled ahead.

Great. Sure. Feel sorry for this dude. Why not?

She reached the counter before he did.

“Can I help you?” the eager teenager asked, flashing her a bright white smile, a stark contrast to his dark skin.

“Yes. I’d like a medium hot chocolate.”

“Oh, good choice! Whipped cream?”

“Of course.” She smiled back at him despite her current miserable state. His bounciness was contagious. Before she realized what she was saying she added, “And my friend will have a coffee.”

The kid shifted his gaze to Franklin. “How do you take it, buddy?”

“Uh,”—he blinked in surprise—“black, please.”

“You got it. Just brewed a fresh pot.”

The kids’ fingers flew over the register keys.

Aroostine handed him a ten dollar bill before Franklin could react. She shoved the change into the mug full of tips and was rewarded with another blinding smile.

He hurried off to get their drinks.

“Um, you didn’t have to do that,” Franklin mumbled. “But thanks.”

She leveled him with a serious look.

“You’re welcome. I’m going to assume for this one occasion only that you’re acting in good faith and need my help. So, right now, you aren’t a bad guy. But if you prove me wrong, there won’t be a second chance. I’ll be at the police station before you can blink.”

Dad Higgins always said to assume the best of people but if they showed their true colors, believe them. It was a philosophy that squared with what her grandfather had told her when she was very young. People, like all animals, will reveal themselves if you give them a chance.

This was Franklin’s chance.

________

Joe stared unblinkingly at the man. The man stared back.

Joe waited.

The man spoke first.

“Excuse me? Did you say ‘No’? You refuse to do what I request?” His voice was cold. Emotionless. But Joe could hear the anger churning just beneath the surface.

“You heard me right.”

The muscle in the man’s cheek twitched.

“That is not advisable.”

Joe shrugged and tried to ignore the almost paralyzing fear that gripped him.

“Says you.”

“Mr. Jackman, this is not a game. You will set aside your pride and record the message as instructed.”

“Or what?”

Joe had no intention of being filmed like some kind of hostage in the Middle East begging for his life. The man wanted him to convince Aroostine to tank her case to save him. He wasn’t going to do it. Not because he was proud, but because he knew his wife. She wouldn’t deliberately lose one of her cases, but she
would
do something dangerous and foolhardy in an attempt to help him.

The man’s face darkened, and he narrowed his eyes. Then his mouth curved into a cruel, hard smile. He turned and strode into the bedroom, where Mrs. Chang somehow had managed to sleep through his unexpected, late-night return.

Sour bile rose in Joe’s throat. He forced himself to keep breathing.

The man reappeared, dragging Mrs. Chang by her thin upper arm. She blinked, shielding her eyes from the sole lamp’s light. Joe could see her trying to clear the disorienting cloud of sleep from her mind to figure out what was happening.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Chang, it’s going to become clear all too soon
, Joe thought.

The man drilled his eyes into Joe’s.

“Now, then. Your question was what happens if you do not comply, is that right?”

Joe’s throat closed.

Mrs. Chang’s face filled with sudden understanding, but she didn’t panic. She looked at Joe intently. He knew she was trying to send him a message not to cave into the man’s demand.

But Joe knew the man wasn’t bluffing. He would hurt Mrs. Chang. Again.

She stared harder and gave her head a tiny, almost imperceptible, shake.
Don’t
, she mouthed wordlessly.

He shook his head at her, giving her an apologetic look, then wet his lips to tell the man he’d do it. He’d record the video message.

Before he could speak, the man laughed.

“How cute, this solidarity among my captives. She wants you to stay strong, Mr. Jackman. But you are not strong enough, are you? You do not have the stomach to watch me break her remaining fingers, one by one, until you do as you are told. You will acquiesce, yes?”

He forced out an answer. “Yes.”

At the same moment, Mrs. Chang spat, “No. Whatever it is you want him to do, he’s not doing it. You can go to hell.”

In a swift motion, the man released her arm and wordlessly backhanded her across the face. She staggered across the small room and landed in a crumpled heap against the wall.

Joe raced over to her. She looked up at him and gasped for breath.

“Don’t do it. Don’t do it, Joe,” she whispered.

He bent and helped her to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered back. “I have to.”

She bent her head, and her disappointment in him radiated off her like waves. She shook her head sadly.

He patted her arm gently and turned to face the man.

“Let’s get this over with.”

________

Aroostine sat at the small, wrought-iron table and studied the face of the man across from her. Franklin hadn’t spoken since she warned him that she wouldn’t hesitate to contact the authorities. He’d just stared at her owl-eyed for a moment and then trailed her to the table.

They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment. The faint strains of the music from the ice rink floated into the cafe and filled the space between them.

Finally, Franklin put down his coffee and dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. “I am acting in good faith, I swear. But, please—what you said before? Please, don’t even think of going to the police. He’ll—he’ll kill them.”

His voice rose in a high-pitched panic.

The kid manning the counter looked over at them, his bored expression turning curious.

She smiled reassuringly at the kid and then turned to Franklin.

“Shh. Calm down.”

He gulped noisily and nodded. “Sorry. What are we going to do?” his voice quavered.

She considered the question for a moment then exhaled slowly.

“First thing’s first. Who are you? How are you tied up in this … this whatever it is? Let’s start there.”

“Okay, so, I’m a computer programmer. I, uh, did some hacking while I was in high school and college—nothing crazy, but I know my way through a lot of back doors.”

“Back doors?”

“Right. A lot of times, a programmer will create a program for a client but leave himself a back door—a way in just in case he needs to fix or update something. Usually you’ll hide it, so kids screwing around don’t stumble on it and come in and muck things up. Follow?”

“I guess.”

This might be more background than she needed, but she decided to let him go. He was clearly warming to his topic. He straightened up, leaned forward, and a glint of excitement shone in his eyes.

“So, I was hired right out of college as a programmer for SystemSource.”

He paused to take a breath, but she jumped in.

“Wait—SystemSource, the company that makes the RemoteControl systems?”

He nodded. “That’s the one. I know, you sued us for trying to bribe foreign government officials. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Okay,” she said slowly.