The Sexiest Man Alive (27 page)

Shayla was quiet for a long time. Rain pattered down, making a sound like snapping fingers.

“I walked back to Quail Hollow. I hid in the ditches every time I heard a chopper coming along the road. I saw all the cop cars and emergency vehicles roaring over to the cannery. Then a while later I saw the ambulance coming back from that direction, but it didn’t have its lights on and it was going slow, so I just knew then that Ricky was dead. I took his car—this old rusted-out piece of shit, but it at least ran and it had a little gas in it. I didn’t know where to go, but I finally thought of my cousin Brandi in Milwaukee. I called her up and she said I could stay with her for a few days.”

Shayla leaned her forehead against the window, suddenly looking very young and very tired. “I guess you know the rest.”

Mazie handed her the water bottle and Shayla took a deep drink, finishing off the water.

“I always knew the Yatts would find me, sooner or later. I’m the only witness to what happened. It wouldn’t do any good telling them I wouldn’t rat out them out. They’ll kill me anyway. I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this whole thing.”

“We’re not dead yet. And I bet the police are looking for us.”

“You think?”

“Sure,” Mazie lied. It was only late afternoon and it was possible nobody had even noticed yet that Mazie was missing. Magenta was supposed to return from Vegas today, but he might not look for Mazie until Saturday night. She and Juju usually phoned each other a couple of times a day, but with Mazie’s phone out of service, Juju might not think it odd when Mazie didn’t call her. It could be Sunday before anyone thought to call the police.

But Ben Labeck would come for her.

She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew she loved him.

The few drops of rain increased to a downpour. “The paint cans,” Mazie cried, jumping to her feet, getting a puzzled look from Shayla.

“For water,” Mazie explained. They launched into frenzied activity, snatching up old paint cans, dumping out debris, and setting them on the sills of the opened windows. Even though the paint cans weren’t the cleanest, the captured rainwater would at least be wet. Depending on how long they were locked up here, there might be a time when water of any kind
was precious.

They stuck their heads out of the window and let the cool rain fall on their tongues and bathe their faces. Mazie held Muffin out so he could snap at the raindrops.

“We should have taken in your shirt,” Shayla said. “Now it’s all soaked.”

Shayla had stripped off the T-shirt Mazie had lent her. They’d strung it on a length of old wire and hung it from a window that faced away from the sentries below and toward the road. A long shot—after all, the road was a half mile away—but you could never underestimate the power of a nosy neighbor.

The rain turned from gentle sprinkle to heavy downpour and they ducked back inside. “Those pigs will all be indoors now,” Shayla said gloomily. “Drinking, gambling, fighting. Sooner or later one of ’em is going to remember they’ve got two girls locked up and helpless.”

“We’re not helpless by a long shot,” Mazie said. “Now where’d I put my pantyhose?”

Daryl Johnson lived in the upstairs flat of a duplex on South Thirteenth Street, in a working-class neighborhood that was holding on to respectability by the skin of its teeth. The house had dark brown shingle siding, a sagging front porch, and a one-car detached garage so ancient-looking it might once have housed a horse and buggy. Chemical-smelling smoke wafted from the backyard, where someone was grilling.

Ben parked at the crumbling curb, got out of his car, and walked toward the house. He opened the gate in a chain-link fence and entered a back lawn that was mostly close-cropped weeds and crabgrass. A man was bent over a small grill set atop a picnic table, poking at coals that were reluctant to light. He looked up, scowling, as Ben approached. He was around six feet, heavyset, but with muscle under the flab. He was in his mid-thirties, Ben guessed, with wavy, sand-colored hair beneath a Cubs baseball cap.

Never trust a Cubs fan: it was one of the guiding principles of Ben’s life. “Are you Daryl Johnson?” he said.

The man shrugged. “Depends on if you’re trying to sell something.” He sprayed lighter fluid on the coals, making the fire blaze up and filling the air with an acrid stench.

Ben took that as a yes. Already disliking the man, he said. “I’m not selling anything. But I think I found something that belongs to you.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“A Triumph motorcycle. Orange and black, model ATJ.”

“Hey, you found my bike? You a cop?”

“No. I’m looking for the person who borrowed the bike.”

“Borrowed it my ass! The chick stole it!”

“When?”

“Couple of days ago. Took my damn jacket and boots, too.”

“Did you report it?”

Daryl Johnson’s eyes flicked away and he concentrated on the coals. “No, I didn’t file a report. Figured she’d return the bike sooner or later—she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.”

“What’s the girl’s name?”

“Her name?” Johnson’s eyes narrowed. He pointed the barbecue tongs at Ben. “Her name is
None of your goddamn business and get the hell out of here
, that’s what it is.”

Ben’s temper, already on a short fuse, exploded. He took two strides, knocked the tongs out of the man’s hand, gripped him by the shoulders, spun him around, and slammed him up against the side of his house. “Know what I think, Daryl? I don’t think that was her name at all, but I bet if you think hard, you’ll remember.”

“You—you better stop it—I’ll call the cops on you.”

“No you won’t, Daryl. Because we both know you’re a slimeball and want to stay as far away from the cops as you can.”

Ben didn’t know this at all, but his instincts were telling him it was true and he trusted his instincts. There was something sleazy about this guy, something he was trying to hide. He wanted to shove Daryl’s head right through the walls of his ugly house, but he contented himself with just a couple of light bangs, which jarred loose Daryl’s brain cells. He started babbling.

“Sharla. Or Shayla, something like that—that was her name.”

“How do you know her?”

“I was over at The Hog—this bar. She comes on to me and I give her my phone number. That’s all, I swear.”

Ben bounced his head against the siding again. “What else?”

“Ow—jeez, stop it! She phoned me. She was in some kind of trouble—sounded like every cop in the city was down in Piggsville. I brung her back here and let her sleep on the sofa. I was real nice to her. And how does she pay me back? She steals my sled.”

“You did something to her, didn’t you?”

“Nothing—Christ—you’re breaking my arm.”

“Labeck. Let him go.”

Ben turned. Johnny Hoolihan was letting himself in through the gate. How long had the guy been there?

The two men stared at each other for a moment that stretched, then Ben released Daryl Johnson, turned, and stalked away. Hoolihan’s pimpmobile, his sheriff’s auction Cadillac, was parked on the street behind Ben’s car. Ben looked at the Cadillac with new appreciation. He’d just talked to Hoolihan two hours ago, giving him the news about Mazie and asking him to trace
the plates on the bike. Hoolihan had gotten back to him fifteen minutes later, giving him Daryl Johnson’s name and address. Then the guy had driven all the way from Quail Hollow, making the three-hour drive in less than ninety minutes. Impressive, Ben grudgingly admitted, even with a Kojak light mounted on the dashboard.

Hoolihan emerged from Daryl Johnson’s backyard, walked over, and leaned against his car. Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Hoolihan said, “Good job being the bad cop.”

“You heard what he told me?”

“The whole thing.” Hoolihan cracked a smile. “Didn’t want to walk in before you’d gotten some answers. If I knocked him around, I’d be looking at a lawsuit. But you being a civilian—well, you can squeeze him until he squeals and if he sues you, that’s your problem.”

“So where does this put us?”

Hoolihan’s grin faded. “Here’s how I see it. Mr. Barbecue here isn’t involved. He picked Shayla Connelly up the night she escaped from the Skulls. He probably demanded sexual services and she bolted. I don’t know where she stayed for the next few days, but I think she showed up on Mazie’s doorstep last night. The gang tracked her down there and took both girls, probably in that truck the neighbor woman saw.”

Ben took a deep breath. He had to know. “Do you think they’re still alive?”

“No guarantee.” Hoolihan rubbed his eyes with his palms. “But these gangs are big on ritual. I don’t think they’ll just shoot Shayla right away. They’ll want to make an event out of it, wait until night, get their whole tribe together, then stage a trial or ceremony or something. But that’s just a guess.”

“This gang—it’s from around Quail Hollow, isn’t it? So that’s where they’ll—”

“Possibly. But they could be anywhere in the state. They have connections in Illinois, too. We’ve got every law enforcement official in three states on this, we’ve got roadblocks set up, we’re putting the thumbscrews to our informers, we’re checking out biker bars—every damn thing we can think of. I’m driving back home as soon as I give Milwaukee PD my report on Shayla and this Johnson character. Oh, and this being a probable kidnapping—the FBI is coming in on it, too.

When Ben drove back to Mazie’s apartment, he discovered that the police had sealed it off and weren’t letting anyone in. None of the cops was friendly. Ben found himself shunted aside, told like a naughty child to stay out of the way. Fuming, he headed back to his car,
brushing past Magenta, a worried-looking Juju, and Lester Pfister, who was noodling with his smartphone.

Juju caught his arm. “What happened, Ben? Did you find the guy who owned the bike?”

Ben briefly explained what he’d learned from Daryl Johnson—that the person in Mazie’s apartment last night had probably been Shayla Connelly, witness to a gang murder.

“I feel so helpless,” Juju said. “I want to do something, but I don’t know what.”

“Here’s what I’m doing,” Ben said. “Driving to Coulee County, prying up every floorboard, scouring every biker bar—”

“Excuse me, Ben,” said Lester, setting a hand on his shoulder. “But that would be counterproductive. It would take you hours to drive there, and then you could only hope to cover a small fraction of the area. I’ve been doing some research on this motorcycle gang. Not that I’m an expert or anything, I mean I’ve never even been on a motorcycle or—”

Juju bugged out her eyes. “Get on with it, Lester.”

“Right, sorry. This gang was originated by a man named Reuben ‘Papa’ Yatt. He’s eighty-one years old now, with a criminal record as long as your arm. Extortion, assault and battery, arson, and probably murder. He’s also a drug kingpin, with the most extensive operation in the Midwest.”

“Does any of this have a point?” Ben grumped.

“The point,” Lester said, adjusting his glasses, “is that this man is sitting on millions of dollars in drug money. He uses the money to buy legitimate businesses and property, mostly under false names—relatives or trusted associates. This is just my hypothesis, but I think he had Mazie and Shayla taken to one of those properties he owns. What we need to do is pinpoint which one. Then we can move.”

Looking embarrassed, Lester explained his plan, which would require computers, a printer, and a strong Wi-Fi signal.

“We can work in my back room,” Magenta said. “It’s got everything.”

Ben walked away without a word. He wasn’t going to sit around playing with a computer, not when Mazie’s life was in danger. He got in his car and took off, not knowing where he was going, barely seeing the street in front of him, feeling as though all the skin in his body had been flayed away and every nerve was shrieking in pain. He craved the pain. He wanted to pound on something until he broke his hands.

Why don’t you use your brain for a change, Labeck?
He heard Mazie’s voice so clearly, she could have been sitting in his lap. Mazie would be using
her
brain, no doubt about that. She’d be using every ounce of her cunning to get herself and the girl out. She’d bat her eyelashes and fib and sniff out her enemies’ weak points. When life gives you rubber bands, make bungee cords, that was her motto. She was smart and sneaky and a lot tougher than she looked. If anyone could escape her captors, it was Mazie Maguire.

Okay, baby—I’ll use my brains. What I’ve got left of them
.

At his apartment he snatched up his laptop, then drove back to Magenta’s. Lester’s command center was up and running in Magenta’s back room, and it looked like a cross between the dressing room for a drag show and IBM headquarters. Surrounded by glittery gowns and size thirteen high heels, there were two cleared-off desks with some first-rate technology: a fast modem, powerful Wi-Fi, and an expensive, up-to-the-nanosecond computer. Lester had evidently brought his laptop along with him because he was hunched over it, typing, his fingers a blur, while Juju was using Magenta’s desktop PC.

“I thought we could start by checking properties that have turned over recently in Coulee County,” Lester said. “Say, within the last five years. We’re probably looking for a large commercial property—so take out the single-family dwellings—and we’re left with only about three hundred properties. We look at the names and see if we can find any connection to Papa Yatt.” He showed Ben and Juju how to bring up the records on their laptops.

“This is still going to take us all day,” Ben grumbled.

Lester shook his head. “Not if we cross-reference it with Terra Cognito.” He brought up a screen displaying a high-altitude image of a city. Lester zoomed in. The photo grew larger and larger, until they could see a city street in such close-up detail that the manhole covers were visible.

“Is that Brady Street?” Juju asked.

“In real time,” Lester said proudly.

“Is this like Google Earth?” Magenta asked. “Spy satellites sending photos?”

“Google Earth is last year’s technology,” Lester said. “Terra Cog is done with low-altitude drones. The Pentagon doesn’t even have this yet.”