The Past Came Hunting (31 page)

Chapter Forty-three

“Are you out of your whacked-out,
gringo
mind?” Ramirez roared.

When Drake had told Ramirez he’d located a new bank to hit, Ramirez had left Drake to it, then disappeared with his latest squeeze. Carrying a six pack into his sister’s house, he’d been in a decent mood until Drake announced that he’d brought home a package.

“One of my rules is no women,” Ramirez shouted. “The cops will be all over this. My boys will tear her apart. If my sister was here, she’d have my head and
your
nuts. I can’t believe you brought the broad here.”

“What’d you want me to do, leave her outside? And your sister’s not here, she’s on a fucking airplane.”

Ramirez’s eyes narrowed. “I should cut you into little pieces for knowing that. You’re out of control, Max. First Sanchez, now this.”

“You did Sanchez,” Drake argued.

“
You
pushed the mother into me on your crazy rampage. Dude went berserk, turned on me. It was him or me. We’re onto some serious money, Max. Don’t blow this. You kidnapped the piece. Get her out of here.”

“Not yet. I’ve thought it through, we can use her.”

“I ain’t into rape,
hombre
. Know what bros in the joint do to cons who take women and children by force?”

“I’ve heard,” Drake said dryly. “You talk like we’re going back. She owes me, Ramirez. She sent me up. I almost killed her tonight.” Drake held a thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “I came this close, then thought of a better way. If I shot her, she’d get off too easy. She’d never know.”

Ramirez shook his head. “Know what, asshole?”

“What she took from me.”

“Damn, Max, you’re one screwed-up dick. How are you gonna let her
know
?”

“She’s gonna do the bank job.”

Ramirez reached for a beer. Twisting the cap, he said, “Say what?”

At Ramirez’s confusion, Drake did something he didn’t know he could do anymore. He out-and-out grinned. “No shit, man, it’s doable. I’ve been worried about security, and all we have is a couple of minutes to do the job. There’s no guard at Assurance Bank, the new place I scoped out today. Each teller pushes a panic button, which alerts an alarm company. Melanie will buy us time. She banks at this place. The tellers know her by name. It’s perfect because they’ll identify her. And by the time she’s in custody, we’ll be in a different vehicle and long gone.

“With her prison record, the cops will never believe she had nothing to do with it, and she’ll be the one doing time.”

“So we just tell her she’s gonna do the job for us?” Ramirez scoffed. “She’ll walk in and scream her bloody head off. She’ll yell for help, tell them she’s been kidnapped. Max―”

Hadn’t this dude ever heard of Patty Hearst? Drake sighed. “Cool it.” He walked to the counter and grabbed Melanie’s purse. Tossing it on the table, he said, “She’ll do the job, and she’ll do it willingly. We’ll be waiting outside. We get our hands on the dough, take off and leave her behind.”

As he voiced his plan, the scheme became better than a horny dude watching porn. He’d dump her on the Interstate just like the trucker had when she was seventeen. Of course, Drake would kill her if he had to, but sending her back to the pen would be the ultimate revenge.

For the first time, the gang leader seemed to consider it. “I don’t know, Max,” he said, staring down at the handbag. “What makes you so sure this will work?”

“Leverage, man. Leverage. Our soon-to-be partner has a weakness.”

Chapter Forty-four

Mel stirred, awaking to pain. Mind-numbing, head-shattering pain. Arms tied behind her back, ankles bound, duct tape over her mouth, she lay face down on a thin sheet covering a mattress.

Oh, God
. Her heart beating wildly, she rolled onto her side. Where was she? From the looks and smell, it appeared to be some kind of a basement. A single light bulb illuminated the dark unfinished space.

To her right, she could make out the edge of an appliance, probably a washer or dryer. From overhead she heard voices. Loud, angry, arguing.

Then everything came back to her. She couldn’t count herself lucky to be alive―yet. She was Drake Maxwell’s prisoner.

As bile forced its way up her throat, she did her best not to retch. With the tape binding her mouth, she could aspirate. The knots binding her hands, cut into her wrists, and her shoulder blades ached from being kept in such an unnatural position.

She had to get out of here. Her gaze caught on four tiny windows near the ceiling. If by some miracle she could get free, could she climb up there, squeeze through one of them and call for help?

The door above her opened and what sounded like an army of footfalls descended into her version of hell.

Too late.

Bile rose in her throat yet again as the army proved to be Drake and another man. They moved close, Drake holding back, the stranger standing directly over her. He shook his head. “Max, Max, Max, what have you done?”

Mel glared up into the pitch-black eyes of a Hispanic man who wore confidence like his T-shirt and jeans. He wasn’t as tall as Drake, but he was fit.

Squatting beside her, he said, “Hello,
amiga
. What can I say? You’ve made a serious enemy. I extend Max my hospitality, and this is how he repays me. He involves me with a woman he plans to let bleed all over my floor.”

Mel squeezed her eyes shut. This guy was just as bad as Drake, toying and menacing.

“Open your eyes,
chica
.”

She obeyed to find he’d drawn a switchblade. Eyes wide, she tried to scream, but any sounds emerged muffled and useless as she struggled to get away.

He rolled his eyes. “See, Max, you’ve scared her to death.” Holding the blade between his straight white teeth, he gathered her by the front of her shirt and pulled her upright. Then, in one quick tug, he ripped the tape from her mouth, untied her ankles and cut the bindings from her wrists.

Slowly, she brought her arms forward and rubbed the feeling back into her hands. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name’s not important. What’s important is that you’re still alive.” He nodded over his shoulder. “But Max, he wants to kill you.”

Her unwilling gaze drifted to her arch enemy. Drake stood leaning against the stairs, arms crossed, his mouth pulled into a furious scowl.

She rubbed her still-stinging mouth. “He missed his opportunity.”

“Don’t be a fool,
chica.
He could have killed you at any time and still may. If I’m not here to stand between the two of you, he will get rid of you.”

What was this? A criminal’s idea of good cop/bad cop? “You want me to thank you, is that it?”

“It would be a start. Who knows what Max has in store?”

“I’ll thank you when you let me go.”

“Ah, Max, you didn’t tell me she was a spitfire.” The stranger reached out to stroke her cheek.

Mel jerked away and he laughed. “
Es, muy linda
.”

Whatever the hell that meant. She couldn’t just sit by and play victim. It was time to develop a strategy. “I’m thirsty,” she said. “And hungry.”

“Of course. What do you think, Max? Should we feed her?”

“Let her starve.”

His companion shook his head. “See there, so unfriendly. Max, play nice.”

Keeping her face neutral, she studied him. Who was in charge here? Drake, or this man? It didn’t matter. Fifteen years ago, she’d sat in a sparse room much like this one. A gray-headed detective tried to be a father figure, to persuade her he was on her side, while the younger one tore the truth to shreds. Guess they didn’t know she didn’t trust her father. She didn’t trust cops, and she damn sure didn’t trust these guys.

The Hispanic man held out his hand. “Come with me,
chica
, I’ll get you something to eat.”

Reluctantly, she took his hand and tried to appear grateful. And with that she steeled her will to survive.
All right, you bastards, let the games begin
.

Chapter Forty-five

Joe had no proof he’d stumbled onto a crime scene.

So when analyst Harriet “Harry” Landau responded to the callout, he was glad to have her experienced set of eyes and know-how. To anyone on the street, Harry could be someone’s grandmother. To forty-year veterans, she was a skilled professional; to rookies she was an embarrassing pain in the ass who caught what they missed, often reprimanding a FNG (fucking new guy) for botching a crime scene.

Joe had gone over every inch of the shop, but admittedly Mel’s disappearance had skewed his objectivity. In a very short while, he might experience one of the toughest conversations he’d ever had as a cop, explaining to a fatherless, teenage boy that he hadn’t a clue what had happened to his mother.

Observing no signs of violence, Joe had sent the assisting cops back on patrol.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, then shoved his hands in his coat pocket, visually skimming the area, while Harry dusted the counter, cash register, phones, work areas and knobs for prints.

Even Harry’s phenomenal track record didn’t leave Joe with much hope. Pinnacle Creations maintained a steady stream of customers. Locating prints that matched the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Information System would be the proverbial needle in the haystack.

Powerless to produce something that wasn’t there, he left the crime scene analyst and walked outside, past Mel’s car to the group of mail boxes fifty yards away. It wasn’t enough to escape the smell of flowers and greenery that were a constant reminder of Mel, but it was a start.

“Joe? Got a minute?” Harry called from the door, then disappeared back inside the shop.

Jogging back, he reentered the business a lot faster than he’d left it. “Harry? Where are you?”

“Down here,” came her muffled voice.

He rounded the corner to find the heavyset woman on her stomach, flashlight in hand, shining it into a small crevice beneath the counter.

“What’ve you got?”

“I don’t know. Something.” She slid her gloved hand into the space. “Damn these fat fingers. They don’t fit.” From over her shoulder she glanced up at him. “Yours won’t either. See if you can find something long and skinny.”

Joe entered the store room. He picked up a broom handle, determining it was too big for the space.
Long and skinny
. He scanned the room. On a back table next to the door was a helium tank with deflated balloons and a cylindrical tube next to it containing sticks. He grabbed one and rushed back to Harry.

“Atta boy.” She handed him the flashlight. “Hold this.”

With the woman’s stretched-out bulk, he did his best to squat beside her between the counter and the wall.

Harry never said please, she rarely said thank you. Rank meant nothing to her. She was a civilian, good at her job. If she smiled, you were on her good side, a frown meant she had little use for you. Over the course of his career, Joe considered it a compliment he’d received more smiles than jeers.

“Come here, you little dickens,” she said, huffing from the exertion.

“What does it look like?”

“Whatever it is, it’s shiny.”

“It’s under the cash register. Could it be dropped change?”

“It’s not that flat. Shine the light over here.”

Grimacing, Harry took the stick and swung back and forth under the area. Several attempts later, she cried, “Gotcha.”

As she forced the object via the stick in her direction, Joe stood over her, narrowing his gaze as the remainder of a battered cell phone made its appearance.

“Mind telling me what made you look down there?” he asked, helping the panting woman to her feet.

“Same thing that makes you guys crawl through the sewers. It was there.”

She turned the phone in her glove-covered palm. His heart sped up. It had obviously been crushed. It also was identical to the one Luke Norris owned.

“Want me to bag it?” she asked.

“Not yet.” He took a pair of tweezers from her kit, pinched the phone between the rubber-tipped ends and placed the phone on the floor. Then raising his foot he came down like he was going to crush it. “Someone stomped on this. He might have touched it.”

“Unless he caught Mrs. Norris trying to make a call and told her to drop it,” Harry argued.

“You just can’t think positive. Check it for prints. Then run it by Lishock, ask him to do a trace on the memory card.”

“Got it.”

“You’re one tenacious woman, Harry. Glad you’re on our side.”

“Do I get a raise?”

“You get something better, my undying respect. Get me those prints.” Joe held the door open for Harry, then locked up the store. He was about to see Harry to her car when his cell phone rang. Waving her on, and watching her move toward her vehicle, he took a breath before answering. “Crandall.”

“Lt. Crandall. My name’s Clayborn Morrison. I’m Chief of Police for Riverside California Police Department.”

Joe pinched the bridge of his nose. This couldn’t be good. What can I do for you, Chief?”

I received your name from Mrs. Marcy Maxwell. She asked me to get in touch with you. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“Marcy Maxwell. Is she any relation to Adam Maxwell?”

“She is. She’s Maxwell’s wife.” The chief hesitated. “Late this afternoon, Maxwell was the victim of a hit and run. He and his body guard, as it turns out, were crossing the street at one of Maxwell’s job sites, when a man driving a stolen Ford Excursion struck both men.”

Joe closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of flying bodies, and what a vehicle the size of an Excursion could do to two grown men. The driver had wanted to make sure he did permanent damage. Joe thought of his recent conversation with Adam. He’d claimed to have beefed up security. Obviously he had.

“Adam Maxwell died instantly. As for the bodyguard, he’s on life support.”

Joe swallowed hard. “Did you catch the driver?”

“Not at first. That’s when Mrs. Maxwell became hysterical. Said that you’d tried to warn her husband this might happen. She put me in touch with you.”

“The man who did this,” Joe said, urgently, trying to make sense of it. “You said not at first. What does that mean?” Joe thought of the crooked P.I. Givens and
that
debacle of a goose chase. If Drake Maxwell was in California killing his brother, then who in the hell had Melanie?

“We apprehended the driver not a half hour later. A man by the name of Jason Rander fled Riverside, apparently trying to make it to L.A. When police pursued, he lost control of the Excursion. It swerved into another lane. A semi coming in the other direction hit the Excursion head on. Driver of the semi survived, but the suspect died en route to the hospital.

“I suppose it would be too much to hope he made a deathbed confession?” Joe asked.

“Looks like you caught a break, Lieutenant. Rander told a paramedic that Drake Maxwell hired him to kill his brother.”

Joe placed a hand on the back of his neck, rubbed it and squeezed.

“I understand you told Adam Maxwell that his brother might be after him.”

“For all the good it did,” Joe said. “I also think Drake Maxwell might have killed a corrections officer here in Cañon City, Colorado. It gets worse. Tonight Maxwell may have kidnapped a woman.”

The chief responded with a muffled oath. “Do you have any idea where he could be?”

“Not at this time,” Joe said. “I’m about to put out an APB. I appreciate the phone call. Will you relay my deepest condolences to Mrs. Maxwell and her family?”

“I will. If it’s any consolation, Lieutenant, Mrs. Maxwell said to thank you for trying.”

“That’s no consolation.”

“I wouldn’t think so. Anything I can do for you on this end?”

“You can contact your counterpart in Cañon City, tell him what you told me. Perhaps with both our agencies telling them about Drake Maxwell, they’ll listen. We think he’s around here somewhere.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Just remind them we’re on the same side,” Joe said. “And help us get this guy.”