Sons (23 page)

Eyes wide with terror, Colin nodded a silent yes.

Louis nodded toward Mario. The thug bent one of Alexandra’s fingers back just to show Colin he meant business. Alexandra screamed more from fright than actual pain.

Her usually calm mind played ping pong with her runaway emotions. She alternated between hating Colin, wishing she had never laid eyes on him, and aching for his fear… his fear of being sodomized, and of knowing that she, the girl he loved, would know it had happened.

She began to cry. Colin pulled away just enough to reach out and touch her hair before Mario pulled her back into his bear-like grip.

Colin’s eyes pled for forgiveness.

Louis stepped up to Alexandra, who continued a fruitless struggle against Mario’s strong grip.

“Now, little lady, the same goes for lover boy over there. Do you want to see him all broken up?”

Alexandra relaxed into a submissive slump and whispered, “No.”

Ben stepped up to Colin and looked into his eyes.

“Mr. Phillips, it is my wish that you cooperate with me. However, if you feel you must resist, let me remind you that your friend’s good health depends on you—and yours on her. This is a serious situation in which you find yourselves. Each of you is responsible for the other. Do you understand?”

The two teens nodded in wide-eyed unison.

“Mario, search the little lady for a cell phone,” Louis said.

Alexandra offered no resistance as Mario rummaged through her pockets, lingering longer than necessary when he came to the front pockets of her jeans. At last, he located the suspected device in her jacket.

“Here you go, Boss,” he said, handing the phone to Louis.

Ben snatched the cell phone from Louis’s hand and checked the last call. Satisfied Alexandra hadn’t contacted anyone about her whereabouts, he flung the phone into a wastepaper basket. Then he turned on Colin.

“Do you have a mobile phone too?”

“No,” Colin lied.

Frisking the teen produced another cell phone. Ben checked this one for messages too. None. He turned, dropped the phone into the trash, and wheeled around, backhanding Colin once again. This time he drew blood.

Colin shook with impotent rage. No one had ever hit him before. Desperately seeking a way out of this dilemma, his mind raced into a brick wall. Outnumbered and outweighed, he realized at last that he and Zan were complete prisoners.

Ben grabbed Colin by the throat and said, “Little man, let me give you a piece of advice to live by. Never lie, unless you are absolutely sure no one will ever find out!”

Carelessly stubbing out his cigar in an ashtray, the Arab said, “Very well, let us go now, and Louis, put your belt back on or you will lose your modesty.” Then he chuckled, adding, “A little levity never hurts, yes?”

Louis led the way while Ben shoved Colin through the office door and out onto the stairs. Mario followed, pushing Alexandra in front of him.

Four flights down, they arrived at another door beyond which a tunnel spread into the darkness. Louis flipped on a light switch and looked back over his shoulder.

“This leads to the old subbasement. There’s another tunnel that connects to the building across the street—handy, huh?”

Louis ignored Ben’s silence.

“Anyway, I rented a van. When we get over there, we can leave on Rose Street. Even if someone sees us, they won’t connect the van with this place.”

Ben said nothing. His confidence in Louis Carew and his capabilities was fast eroding. Already, there were unexpected developments. Louis Carew, he decided, was outliving his usefulness.

A
FEW
minutes later, the four emerged out onto a parking pad hidden behind the warehouse across the street from Nick Flamingo’s stakeout.

Louis spun Colin around, forcing the teen off balance.

“All right, kid. We gotta do some walking outside. Mario’s gotta gun, and he loves to use it.”

“There will be no guns,” Ben cautioned in a smooth, calm tone. He drew the stun gun from his jacket.

“This is all we need,” he said.

Mario glanced at his boss for assurance that Ben was calling the shots here. Louis merely looked on.

Ben’s eyes flashed like a child delighted with a new toy as he switched the device on.

A blue arc flitted in the darkness. Colin drew back as the Arab waved the small gun near his arm.

“Mr. Phillips, this is a stun gun. Look at the pretty light.”

Ben walked over to Alexandra. He stroked her smooth cheek with the back of his hand.

“You see, Mr. Phillips, as with most pretty things, the stun gun brings with it a certain danger. I have seen people who have experienced its power, scarred for life. If used improperly, it can even cause death. I assure you, if you cause me trouble, I will not hesitate to use it on the lady here.”

Once again, the threat to Zan was enough for Colin.

“No trouble… no trouble,” he murmured.

“Good. Now we go.”

C
OLIN
and Alexandra lay quietly on the van floor as Louis and the Arab settled into the large leather seats. Mario eased the big vehicle into the street and sped away.

At one point Alexandra drifted into a short nap, while Colin tried to count the number of stops and right and left turns the van made. Finally, he lost count and gave in to fatigue. He rested his head on the coarse cargo carpet.

Thirty-Seven

N
ICK
F
LAMINGO
abandoned the relative anonymity of his car and cautiously moved to the rear of Louis’s building. Surveying the back wall, he quickly found an alarm box neatly bolted to the underside of the loading dock.

Please let this be the hard part,
he prayed as he slipped a slim black case from his jacket pocket and fished out a length of wire and needle-nose pliers. Using the pliers, he deftly patched a loop across the alarm’s trip wires so when he opened the door, which he certainly would do, the connection would be unbroken, and the alarm would remain blessedly silent.

The rear door proved even less of a chore. Clearly, whoever installed the flimsy lock was relying on the poorly hidden alarm box to foil burglars. Easing inside, Nick quickly closed the door and listened. Silence.
Hmph, this could be
good
or it could be
bad
.

The landing on which he stood gave way to two flights of stairs. The one to the left led down; the one to his right went up. When presented with a choice of direction, Nick always chose left. He reasoned it was because his mother had been a lifelong Communist. He flipped a light switch and looked over the railing. Naked bulbs dotted three landings below. He could see the outline of three doors on each landing.

Great, this could take all night!

Nick inspected the rooms at every level and found nothing but dust and rat droppings. Finally, he arrived at what he figured must be below ground level. A heavy sliding door barred his way. Taking a chance on what may lie beyond, he rolled it aside on its well-greased wheels. A wide tunnel yawned into black. Nick bent down and ran his hand over the scuffed dust. The shoe impressions indicated back and forth traffic. They were new.

So this is how they get in and out without me seeing them.

The PI stared out into the gloom.

Hmm, I’d better let the cops handle this.

Backing away from what looked like the portal to Hades, Nick turned and crept back up the stairs, past the rear entrance landing, and up until he found Louis’s card on a door. He switched off the stairwell lights and pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. He turned the doorknob, giving it a slight push. No light escaped.

The same odor that had repelled Colin assaulted the private eye’s nose. Ignoring the all too familiar smell of raw sex, he drew out a slim flashlight, switched it on, eased the door open, and scanned the room.

Stage props.
What, Louie boy’s tryin’ to look legit?

Nick gave a quick look around for signs of the girl but saw none.

A faint light creased the darkness. A door stood slightly ajar. Always one to take the path of least resistance, Nick moved closer, eased the door open with the toe of his boot, and peeked in.

Empty. Terrific.

Nick panned his beam around, taking in lighting fixtures and more camera equipment. He tiptoed across the room to the curtained wall and peeked behind the black drapes. Darkness rewarded his stealth. The detective frowned and shrugged his shoulders. He turned to leave when his tiny spotlight caught a smoldering cigar butt dying in a plastic ashtray on the desk.

Solitary occupations often make people talk to themselves. Nick was no exception. He nudged the stub with his finger, then picked it up and gave the stogie a sniff. As he scratched his head he began a one-sided discourse.

Still warm. Hmm, foreign and expensive, this isn’t Louie’s style—more like Krevchenko, but he’s in Russia. I wonder who else
Mr.
Slime’s been playin’ with.

Nick turned to leave, then stopped when his inner voice reprimanded him.

Hey, dummy, don’t forget to check the desk.

Nick walked to the desk, pulled the chair back, sat down. He began pulling drawers open.

He muttered, “This stuff can’t be too important or this thing would be locked. Ugh, oh! What’s this?”

The PI slid a pack of photographs from a large orange envelope and flipped through them in the dim light.

“Holy smokes! What’s Louie gotten himself into?”

Nick turned on the desk lamp to be sure of what he held in his hand. Then it became clear. The pictures, stacked in reverse, chronicled the capture of a teenage girl.
Jesus! It’s the Bocalora kid!

A tortured, badly bruised face stared back in terror. Nick sifted through the remainder of the pictures. Several other young boys and girls seemed to have shared the Bocalora teen’s fate, all but one. One photo, a telephoto shot, looked as if it had been taken by surveillance. Jan Phillips!

What the hell!

Nick flipped the photo over and read the name, “Colin Phillips.”

He looked at the image again.

So this is what he looks like. Yeah, younger, but they could be twins.

Frustrated, the detective leaned back in the chair, rubbed his eyes, and then returned his attention to the job at hand. He looked around the shabby office, hoping for something that would spark an idea. Bits and pieces of a puzzle lay everywhere, yet none seemed to connect. Then a tiny red beam caught his eye. Nick cupped his chin in his hand and pondered the little red light.

Sawing his index finger across pursed lips, he wondered aloud, “Did I just get lucky?”

Perched atop a tripod sat a camcorder, its lens aimed down. The red beam shot from the camera, burying itself into the wood floor.

Nick pushed himself away from the desk and approached the camera. Cocking his head to one side, he studied it. He passed his hand through the red light, and the recorder began to whir. Then it stopped. A yellow light illuminated a small message window. It read, “Out of Memory.”

It’s worth a look-see anyway
. Nick flipped up the view screen and pressed start.

Five minutes of fast forwarding through Louis Carew’s sexual gymnastics with terrified prepubescent girls ended with a panoramic view of the office floor and muffled voices.

Try as he might, Nick couldn’t make out anything other than the voices were of an older man and someone young, probably a teenage boy. Disgusted, Nick was about to shut the machine off when the audio burst with a loud, “Hey, Boss, look what I found. Can I keep her?”

Nick recognized the voice as belonging to Louis’s muscle man.
Mario! The bastard!

Nick leaned closer to the video cam, straining to hear more.

“Zan! What—”

Then he heard what sounded like a struggle.

“Let her go!”

“Colin!”

He had heard enough. Nick pulled the plug on the recorder, took it to the desk, and laid it next to the photographs. Louis Carew had the girl and Jan Phillip’s son.

Poor Mike Bocalora, how the hell am I gonna tell him his kid’s dead… and like this too. Jesus, sometimes I hate this job!

Nick forced himself to study the photos once more, committing the details to memory, and then reached for his cell phone. He needed to call two people right away, one was Rita Maro of the district attorney’s office, and the other was Jan Phillips.

Thirty-Eight