The Truant Officer
Derek Ciccone
Copyright© Derek Ciccone 2011
Published by Derek Ciccone Books at Smashwords
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Facebook: Derek Ciccone Book Club
Twitter: DCicconeBooks
Email: derekbkclb@yahoo.com
To view other books by author: www.derekciccone.com
All books available at Apple, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Sony, and all major places where ebooks are sold
This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental
Chapter One
Jorge DeRosa was half watching the monotonous security feed when she pulled up to the pump.
He observed the woman step out of the pricey SUV, unable to take his eyes off the black mini-dress that hugged every curve of her toned body. All of a sudden his job didn’t seem so bad.
As the dark-haired beauty began to fill the tank, her body language suddenly turned flustered, and she headed in Jorge’s direction.
She entered the food mart, her heeled shoes clicking loudly on the linoleum floor. He recognized her as Mexican, like himself, but she sure didn’t look like she came from the same South Phoenix neighborhood as he did.
She approached the register. “My card didn’t work in the pump. A message said to see the attendant—is that what you people are calling yourselves these days?”
When Jorge looked closer, he noticed something that surprised him. She did come from the same neighborhood as him. He hadn’t seen her in at least ten years, but despite the fancy clothes and uppity tone, he was sure it was her. “Liliana?”
His words snapped her out of distraction. “Excuse me?”
“I’m Jorge DeRosa. Our families lived in the same apartment complex on South 40th Street. You went to school with my brother, Estaban.”
She smiled at the remembrance, but it seemed fake. It was obvious to Jorge that she wanted to leave her old life behind. He knew the feeling—the gang-infested section of South Phoenix was a hard place to escape, and once you got out there was no looking back. Jorge got as far as this night manager job in suburban Chandler, but by the looks of things, Liliana had gotten much further away.
As if reading his mind, she mentioned, “It’s been a long time since someone called me Liliana.”
She handed him her Visa card. He ran his fingers over the plastic as if he were reading Braille. The name had changed to Lilly McLaughlin.
She began impatiently tapping her manicured nails on the counter. People like Lilly McLaughlin always seemed to be in a hurry—perhaps by never stopping, they would never be forced to look back. Jorge didn’t bother to ask her about her mother Rosie, or her six brothers. The youngest, Manuel, was killed in the crossfire of a gang war. The thought reminded Jorge of the dangers of present day.
He held up the credit card. “I’ll run it in here, and watch you on the monitor.”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, but his intentions were honorable. He pointed at the stack of Sunday editions of the Arizona Republic that were wedged between bags of Doritos and other assorted chips on the overstocked shelves. The headline screamed at them: Abducted!
It was the Valley’s third such abduction in the last month, and the source was familiar to Jorge and Lilly. It was an initiation ritual in which a prospective gang member would travel to suburbia with the intent of kidnapping a woman from a public place. The first victim was an Arizona State University student who was doing some late night grocery shopping at a Safeway in Tempe. A forty-one-year-old mother of three was next, taken from a park while walking her dog, right here in Chandler. Then just yesterday, a thirty-year-old real estate agent was snatched from outside a home in Scottsdale. The good news was that the first two women were found alive. The bad news was that they were beaten and raped—their lives never to be the same—and were either unable or unwilling to identify their attackers.
The headline seemed to soften Lilly. By removing her shield of aloofness, she now more resembled the girl that Jorge remembered. The one who wore hand-me-down clothes and tirelessly helped teach English to the many immigrants in their neighborhood.
She smiled at him. This time it wasn’t fake. It was a tough smile from the old neighborhood. The one where you never showed a hint of weakness. “That stuff doesn’t faze us, does it, Jorge?
He smiled back at her, noticing that she dusted off the accent for his benefit. He was now talking to Liliana. “Because we’re from South Phoenix?”
Her smile turned into a chuckle. “South Phoenix wasn’t so tough. I teach high school English. Teenagers—now those monsters scare me.”
She sauntered toward the door.
Jorge turned his attention back to the security feed, watching Liliana return to her vehicle. When she finished filling the SUV with gas, she took out her phone and appeared to be snapping a photo of herself. Jorge looked on curiously—whatever she was doing, she seemed to be enjoying herself. Now that they were homies once again, he would feel comfortable asking her about her theatrics when she returned to retrieve her credit card.
But the picture quickly changed. It happened so fast he couldn’t respond. All he could do was watch in horror.
A dark figure in a ski mask rolled from underneath the car with knife in hand. Lilly’s scream pierced the night.
Even without the knife, the man looked like he could tear apart the petite woman, limb by limb. In a matter of seconds, he grabbed her by the neck, opened the back door of the vehicle, and threw her in like a piece of luggage. He ripped the nozzle from the tank. He then climbed behind the wheel.
The SUV tore out of the gas station as Jorge looked on in horror.
Chapter 2
Darren McLaughlin peered into the bathroom mirror and wondered how he could have aged fifteen years in one day. He was quite certain that he was thirty-eight when he got up this morning. The flight to New York was supposed to lose hours with the time change, not gain years.
He splashed water on his weary face and attempted to maneuver his short-cropped hair into place without much luck. All he wanted to do was fall into his bed and get his sleep for tomorrow’s flight—he couldn’t believe he let Treadwell convince him to join him for a night on the town. Since this was their last trip together, he was unable to say no.
“You should just shave it off and go Vin Diesel,” Ron Treadwell’s loud, drunken voice shot through the bathroom, while he relieved himself in a grimy toilet-stall.
“What?” Darren asked, coming out his trance.
“Your hair—or should I say lack of it. Just shave it off. It will take ten years off you.”
Darren took another look at himself. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”
Treadwell snorted a laugh. “Then I must be really hammered because I’m either looking at a bald spot or you’re wearing a yarmulke. And I figure you’d discuss it with your mentor before converting.”
Darren hated to acknowledge that Treadwell might actually be his mentor. But he did know that despite Ron’s infantile nature, numerous vices, and general obnoxiousness, he owed him his life. Not for saving the day during one of the many flights they had piloted over the years, but for introducing him to Lilly.
“Lilly says it doesn’t look that bad when it’s cut short.”
“Lilly lies.”
Darren angered. “Lilly is the most honest person I know.”
“Ease off the throttle, big guy,” Treadwell said, putting up his hands in surrender. Darren really was a big guy, standing a shade under six-four.
He joined Darren at the sink. “I mean she told a fib to make her aging warrior feel better about himself. A good lie.”
Darren nodded acceptance, too tired to fight for his woman’s honor. He took one more look in the mirror and decided to stop fighting reality and put on his navy-blue pilot’s hat. “Why are we still wearing our uniforms again?” Darren asked.
“Because the only thing chicks dig more than a fighter pilot, is a man in a uniform. So that means we have the best of both worlds. Haven’t I taught you anything?”
“Fighter pilot? Have you been watching Top Gun again?”
Ironically, Darren was the military man who did over three thousand flying hours after graduating as an officer from the Air Force Academy. Treadwell took the civilian route to commercial airlines, getting his pilot’s license at just sixteen with the goal of impressing girls. His early start was why he was ahead of Darren on the pecking order of the airline they flew for.
Treadwell reclaimed the Bloody Mary he’d rested on the sink, swirled it with the celery stick, and took a sip. Darren had given up on reminding him that the rules stipulated he stop drinking at least eight hours before a flight, and they were getting close to the deadline. Treadwell looked in the mirror and played with his rat’s nest of curls. “You know how I keep my hair?”
“I thought you wore a wig.”
Treadwell ignored him. “Because I have remained permanently single. Marriage adds like fifteen years to people.”
By permanently single, Darren assumed his friend forgot to factor in his two divorces and three kids.
“Speaking of which, what do you think of Carrie? Please fasten your seat-belts because we’re preparing for landing…in my room tonight,” Treadwell said with a slurred grin.
Darren just shook his head. But had to admit what Treadwell lacked in looks, intelligence, charm, and maturity, he sure made up in confidence, and did usually make that “perfect landing” with the opposite sex.
“Her name is Kelli, not Carrie. Remember, she introduced herself as Kelli-with-an-i and you responded, ‘I’m Ron with an eye for you?’ I also think I’m a third wheel, so I am going to take a cab back to the hotel. That way one of us will be in shape to fly tomorrow.”
They had an eight a.m. sign-in for the final day of their three-leg trip. They would fly from New York to Miami and then to San Juan, before arriving home to Phoenix deep into the night.
Treadwell looked mortally wounded. “You can’t leave. You’re my wingman.”
“I’m actually your first officer.”
“Exactly. And as your captain, I order that you stay!”
Darren was promoted to captain starting next month, after four-and-a-half years as a first officer. Aside the fact that he would be making more money, it also meant that he and Treadwell wouldn’t fly together again, as a captain always flies with a more junior first officer. That’s why they both bid on this trip for a final voyage of student and mentor. So Darren was guilted into staying.
Treadwell dragged him back into the bar area. It was a typical sports bar filled with loud televisions and even louder patrons. Darren had been to so many cities that the only way he could tell them apart was by the sports teams the locals rooted for. In this case it was the Yankees and the Rangers—New York.
“Kelli said she has a sister who might be stopping by. If she looks anything like Kelli, then you will be flying first class tonight, my friend,” Treadwell said, maintaining his mischievous grin.
“What are you talking about? If you haven’t forgotten, I’m married!”
“Yeah, but you’ve been whining for weeks about how you’re afraid the spark is gone.”
“That doesn’t mean I’d ever cheat on Lilly. It’s until death do us part, you know, for better or worse.”
Treadwell grabbed his head like a migraine had swept through it. “You just gave me a bad flashback to my first marriage. One thing you can count on is that it will always be worse. You know what your problem is?”
Darren braced. Nothing like getting marriage advice from the twice divorced.
“Lilly is a spicy sauce and you’re mild. It’s a bad mix.”
Darren looked at him, perplexed. “You’ve been telling me for years that we’re a perfect fit because she’s salsa and I’m a chip. Salsa is worthless without a chip, so we complement each other like yin and yang.”
“More like yin and bor-yang. All I’m saying is your relationship has become too much chip and not enough dip. There’s a lot of chips that would like to be in that dip, and if you don’t dig in then someone else will.”
Darren wanted to write it off as the ramblings of a drunken fool, but the comment stirred his insecurities. Darren never fit the image of the confident pilot. Which is another reason why he and Lilly were so compatible—where he would stick his toe into life with doubts and hesitations, Lilly would leap right in to the deep end without fear. As long as he had Lilly he wouldn’t need confidence—she had enough for the both of them.
But lately she’d been distant and distracted. Maybe Treadwell was right, and she had grown tired of the mild chip. Perhaps it was the middle age that had surprisingly crept up on him. Or the failure to have that baby they tried so hard for.
But the one thing he was sure of was that he couldn’t lose her.
Chapter 3
Kelli was waiting for them at their table, still sipping on the same vodka tonic. Treadwell brazenly moved right in for a kiss.
Darren shook his head. Treadwell had spotted Kelli sitting alone at the bar when they arrived, declared that they’d be having a “layover” at his hotel later that night, and now he was well en route to making it happen. In his single days, it would have taken Darren a week to build up the courage to talk to a woman at a bar, and even that was a long shot.
Kelli was attractive, but lacked a usual trait of Treadwell’s women—what Lilly often referred to as “stripperness.” Kelli gave off a vibe of sophistication that matched her short, stylish haircut and designer suit. She also spoke with the hint of an accent that Darren couldn’t identify, but didn’t feel comfortable inquiring about, perhaps Eastern European. She appeared out of place in the testosterone-filled sports bar, but explained that she was a big hockey fan and had stopped off on her way home from her Manhattan office. Her work was that of a lawyer, which explained the suit and the long hours.
When Treadwell removed his lips, she announced, “My sister just called, she can’t make it.”
Darren was relieved. The comment also reminded him that in the rush to “hit the town,” he failed to call Lilly and let her know he made it safely, as he did after every flight. She always joked that it would make the news if he crashed, so don’t waste the minutes on their phone plan. But one time he didn’t call and she got upset with worry.
He removed his phone from his coat pocket, realizing it had been off the whole time. When he turned it on he saw that he had a text message from Lilly—almost a half hour ago. He badly wished he’d heard her voice, but when he read her typed words he wasn’t complaining. It read: Every man’s fantasy ~ ILY Lilly.
Darren opened the attached photo and began laughing. From the intro, he expected some racy photos, but this was even better. Lilly had photographed herself pumping gas into their SUV, posing with the look of seduction. Darren had always told her that there was nothing sexier than a woman doing manual labor. Especially one who looked like she did in that little black dress he liked so much.
He typed back: LOL ~ can’t wait to see you tmrw!! ILY2.
He handed the phone to Treadwell, who burst into laughter. “I told you things were fine,” he said.
Darren actually remembered him saying something about finding other chips. Treadwell handed the phone to Kelli, who remarked, “Your wife is beautiful.” She examined Darren more closely, obviously trying to figure out what she was doing with Mr. Average.
Darren could care less. It only mattered what Lilly thought. And with one small gesture, he felt like he had her back.
“I introduced them,” Treadwell interjected, playing the sensitive matchmaker to score points with Kelli. Or as he might say—accumulating frequent flyer miles. Darren didn’t mind—it was a story he never tired of hearing.
It was Darren’s first commercial flight. He was teamed with Captain Ron Treadwell, flying out of their home base of Phoenix. They had returned from a similar three-leg domestic trip, and Darren planned to retire to his lonely apartment to over-analyze his first flight and be his generally boring self. But like tonight, Treadwell dragged him out. They went to the Gila River Casino on an Indian reservation south of Phoenix, a place Treadwell had lost much of his savings over the years, at least what was left after the drinking and divorces.
Darren was mesmerized by a beautiful blackjack dealer. Her name was Liliana, but she told Darren that he could call her Lilly. If he could have formed a sentence, he would have. But as time went by, and he continued to lose money, he began striking up a conversation with her. He was impressed that she worked at the casino to put herself through school, with the goal of becoming an English teacher. He was aware that she was occupying him with conversation to break his concentration—typical dealer trick—but he would’ve gladly signed over anything to keep talking with her.
The only reason the story had a happy ending was because of Treadwell. After another losing hand by Darren, he exclaimed, “Will you please just agree to go on a date with my friend before he ends up homeless!”
Darren turned red with embarrassment, but it was worth it when Lilly agreed. She then ordered him away from the table with her trademark grin, commenting that he better save his money because she wasn’t a cheap date. Less than a year later they were married.
The volume in the bar continued to rise as the Yankees game went into extra innings. Treadwell and Kelli seemed too involved in consuming drinks and groping each other to notice. At one point, they began childishly photographing each other with Kelli’s cell phone. Alcohol and pictures never mixed, but Darren agreed to take photos of the inebriated couple. They looked like those photo-booth pictures at the mall, back before everyone had a camera on their phone. Then Kelli decided that Darren should be in the pictures, and convinced a burly Italian guy at the next table to take a group shot of the three of them.
As the games ended—Yankees a thrilling win, but the local hockey team losing in disappointing fashion—the bar began to clear out. The televisions switched over to the cable news channel GNZ. Darren wasn’t really interested in the latest Democratic primary that was headlining the national news, but his only other option was to watch his mentor make-out with some woman he’d just met. His mind was solely on Lilly, anyway. He checked his phone—no return of his text. He figured that she’d either gone to bed to prepare for a long Monday at school, or was feverishly working on her lesson plan. His watch was still on Arizona time, where it was just past ten.
The next news story was about a controversial Israeli pop star named Natalie Gold, who was expected to make a highly anticipated arrival in the US this week. Not everybody was thrilled by this, and certain groups had organized protests to greet her arrival. Darren had no idea who she was, or why she was controversial, but Treadwell did. He began singing the lyrics to her latest single in a drunken slur.
Darren looked at him strangely. “Where’d you learn that?”
“When you have kids, you pick up all sorts of stuff. Wait until you and Lilly start pushing out some pups.” The grin on his face was permanent at this point.
Kelli seemed to instantaneously sober up. She grabbed an expensive looking handbag and rose to her feet.
“Where you going?” Treadwell asked, looking stunned.
“Kids are complicated. Sorry, I don’t do complicated,” she said and began walking toward the door.
“I’m divorced,” he yelled desperately to her, holding up his ring-less finger.
“That’s what they all say,” she shouted back as she stepped out into the rainy April night.
Darren couldn’t help smiling. “Crash landing.”
“Very funny,” Treadwell muttered and swigged down the remainder of his Bloody Mary. It was the first one all night that he really needed.
Darren refocused on the news just in time to hear the anchor state, “In other news, there has been another abduction of a woman in Arizona. It is the fourth one this month, in what’s believed to be an act of gang violence.”
This grabbed Darren’s interest. The gang abductions had been a huge story back home.
The anchor continued, “GNZ has gained access to the security video at the Mobil station in Chandler, where the latest abduction took place.”
Darren watched a dark figure roll from underneath the SUV and attack a woman with a knife. He then threw her into the backseat and drove off.
Darren felt like he just gained another ten years. His stomach gripped tight.
The woman in the video was Lilly.
Chapter 4
Not even the relentless desert heat could put a blemish on the perfectly made up face of Jessi Stafford. She applied the finishing touches—a dab of gloss on her shiny red lips, and a flip of her thick mane of blonde hair—then dug her six-inch heels into the pavement as if preparing to stand her ground against a charging army. It was just another battle in the war to regain her relevance, and now victory was in sight.
She looked into the camera and unveiled the look of a serious journalist; one she’d perfected on stops in Orlando, New York, and now Arizona.
“I am reporting from the gas station at the corner of Elliott and Alma School Road in Chandler, where a woman was abducted, just hours ago.”
After a dramatic pause, she continued, “My sources have confirmed that this is another in the series of gang-related attacks that have stricken the Valley with fear.”
When Jessi signed off her report, sending the coverage back to the no-talent anchors in the studio, she let out the smile she was holding back like a sneeze.
“What’s so funny, Blondie? Kidnapping humor, or have the gasoline fumes finally gotten to you?” remarked her just-out-of-college cameraman, Byung Park, sporting the usual smirk that Jessi so wanted to wipe off his face. But she let it pass, knowing she’d soon be paroled from this rinky-dink station in the desert, her penance complete.
“This abduction story is my ticket back to New York—and nothing makes me smile more than the thought of getting out of here.”
“I heard all the murderers back there are lonely without you—looking forward to your conjugal visit...err...triumphant return.”
She had made the ascent from a college dropout to anchoring the top rated newscast in New York City by age twenty-six, proudly using all of her ample assets to get there. But the fall was sharp and unforgiving.
The “Jane Callahan Missing” story that became the “Jane Callahan Murder” story had made Jessi a local star. She was the one to receive the tip on the whereabouts of the body, along with landing the much sought after interview with Jane’s husband, and the lead suspect in her murder, Wall Street icon Steve Callahan.
Before Jessi’s star could enter orbit, the pictures appeared of a bikini-clad woman gallivanting with Steve Callahan by the pool of his Mt. Kisco mansion, including a particularly damaging one that featured Jessi delicately applying sun tan lotion to the murder suspect. The headline in the tabloid paper was Killer Sex, and things began to spiral downward from there. Jessi was sent packing, eventually landing at this nothing station in the desert. But she didn’t feel sorry for herself. In fact, she immediately began plotting her rise back to the top, figuring what better place to rise from the ashes than Phoenix. Now it looked like she might get her chance.
She had no time for Byung and his smart-ass remarks—the other reporters would cover the story, but Jessi planned to uncover it. She moved into the mini mart to once again follow up with the night manager, Jorge DeRosa. He was a tough nut to crack, but as the only witness to the abduction, he held the key to the answers she needed.
He saw her coming. “I told you, I have nothing to say to any reporters.”
She had tried the soft approach earlier, twice, without any luck, so now it was time to play hardball. “Let’s get down to business, Jorge. Can I call you Jorge?”
“It’s my name.”
“I’ve seen the video.” It was distributed to all news outlets, hoping someone had recognized the assailant, but Jessi was more interested in the victim. “I saw that the woman paid with a credit card, so you know her name. I need the name, Jorge, do you understand?”
“I understand that I handed over everything to the police, and it’s up to them what is released and what isn’t.”
“The police should have stopped these monsters months ago. I’m trying to save this woman’s life, not to mention the next one—and if we leave it up to the police, I guarantee you there will be another victim. I saw you talking to her on the video, it looks like you liked her, maybe even knew her.”
“I told you—I’ve got nothing to say.”
She moved close to him and whispered, “Perhaps you should reconsider your answer, and then I’ll reconsider bringing in INS to have you sent back over the border.”
“For your information, I’m an American citizen. I was born and raised in this country. Were you?”
Threats were working about as well as nice did, so she went to the tactic that never failed. She bent over enough so that Jorge could get a good view of her long legs, and flashed her irresistible smile. “Maybe we can work something out.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, lady,” he exclaimed, his attention wandering behind her.
Before she could even follow his gaze, she felt the man’s presence.
She turned quickly to see the thick gelled hair and out-of-date sideburns of Officer Brandon Longa.
“Are you cheating on me, baby?” he said in his thick Brooklyn accent, grinning from ear to ear. Longa was the lead investigator on the case, and after a few dates, had become the inside source that had leapfrogged Jessi over the competition. Like her, Longa was in the desert doing penance for things that happened back in New York, where he was once a NYPD officer, and he thirsted every day to get back there.
She gritted her teeth and forced her most flirtatious smile. “C’mon, Brandon, I need that credit card.”
“When we decide to release the name of the victim, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Pretty please,” she begged, flipping her hair like she was trying to get out of a traffic ticket.
His smile turned sly. “I might have an idea of how we can work things out.”
Jessi whispered back, “What do you have in mind?”
Longa turned to Jorge. “I’m gonna need your bathroom key.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, did I speak English? My bad—give me el keyo for el bathroomo.”
Jorge grumbled under his breath as he handed the oversized key to the plain-clothes police officer. Longa took Jessi by the hand and escorted her to the back of the station, with Jessi receiving more than her share of dirty looks from the other reporters and police. He opened the door and led her inside the cockroach-infested restroom.
He pulled her into a tight embrace, his hands roaming over her most sought after real estate. He then started to kiss her.
“Slow down, Brandon,” she cautioned, but her actions didn’t match her words, as she ran her hands along his hips to the back of his tight-fitting pants.
“Don’t have time to slow down, baby. You want the name, then let’s get down to business.”
Desperate times called for desperate measures. She took out a sanitizing spray from her purse and began spraying it profusely around the room, trying to remove the stench of urine. She covered the sticky floor with paper towels until it acted as wall-to-wall carpeting. She then awkwardly knelt on the floor and forced her most seductive look up at Brandon.
He broke into heavy laughter. “You were really going to do it! I just wanted to see how far you’d go—what wouldn’t you do for a story?”
From a kneeling position, she threw a punch. She missed her target, catching him with a glancing blow on the left hip.
“Do you know what the penalty is in Arizona for assaulting a police officer?”
“When I’m finished with you, assault will be the least of your worries.”
Smiling, he responded, “I guess it’s your lucky day because I’m willing to call it even.”
He headed toward the door, before abruptly turning back toward her and tossing the key on the floor. “Why don’t you let yourself out,” he said with more laughter.
Jessi rose up, balancing onto her skyscraper heels. She took out her sanitizing spray and began coating herself like it was bug spray. Once she felt she had fought off the potential bacteria, she smiled.
She had no plans to trade her assets for information, and certainly not on this filthy floor. She had gone to great lengths to get information in this business, some dirtier than this bathroom, but she never played that card with anyone, including Steve Callahan, no matter what the New York tabloids said.
She put the spray back into her purse and then pulled out the Visa card that she had lifted from Brandon’s back pocket.
The name on the card was Lilly McLaughlin.
She smiled again.
Chapter 5
Darren arrived at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, a place that had practically become a second home to him the last few years. It looked the same with its southwestern motif and general cleanliness, but it felt like everything had changed.
After witnessing the video of Lilly on the news, he immediately called his chief pilot back in Phoenix, as was protocol in the case of an emergency. Within half an hour, he was back at JFK and booked as a passenger on the last flight out that night. They made a stop in Atlanta, where Darren picked up another red-eye to Phoenix. There was no in-flight movie, but he had a horror flick playing over and over in his head the whole way. He kept thinking of the pictures of those other women after they were found. Beaten and raped. He also knew that Lilly would fight her captor with every fiber of her petite body. That worried him even more.
With the two-hour time difference, he arrived in Phoenix at 5:30. The sharp morning sun was seeping through the airport windows and reflecting off the gated shops that were not yet open for Monday morning business. Darren always loved being in the airport before the crowds arrived. It normally gave him a sense of peace, but he knew he would never have peace again until he got Lilly back safe and sound.
He moved through the airport, still in a daze. But was snapped back to reality by the sight of an unusually tall woman with bright blonde hair, running at him in a pair of heels that even Lilly wouldn’t attempt to wear. An Asian man half her size ran after her holding a camera.
Darren couldn’t believe this. The police had told him it was imperative that Lilly’s name was not released—not wanting to risk turning the abductor into a cornered animal if Lilly’s picture was splashed across the television and newspapers. But while the police were nowhere to be found, the press was moving in on him. Where was airport security when you need it? Probably frisking some eighty-year-old lady from Des Moines as if she were some suicide bomber.
The woman almost knocked him over. She stuck a microphone in his face and spoke aggressively, albeit slightly out of breath, “Mr. McLaughlin—I’m Jessi Stafford of Channel-6 News. I can’t even imagine what you must be feeling right now.”
What he was feeling was his guts being ripped out without an anesthetic. But he also felt anger towards this reporter for the threat she posed to his wife’s safety.
“I think you have the wrong person,” he said as composed as possible, and kept walking.
“You are Darren McLaughlin, correct?”
“Never heard of him,” he said, looking for a sign of the police officers he was supposed to meet upon arrival.
She held up a photo of Lilly. It was her school photo from South Chandler High, where she taught English. Unlike the camera-shy Darren, Lilly never took a bad photo. Even her driver’s license photo was magazine-worthy.
He grabbed the photo away from her. “Don’t you understand that you’re putting Lilly’s life in danger by showing her picture!?”
“So you are Darren McLaughlin,” she said with a grin. She turned to the cameraman, who looked half asleep. “Are you getting this?”
“Turn the camera off,” Darren demanded.
She turned back to him. “I’m going to be straight with you, Darren—can I call you Darren?”
He said nothing, which she took as a green light.
“Your wife is in danger, Darren. And it has nothing to do with a picture—it’s because you think the police are going to find her. If you’re counting on the police, Lilly is going to end up beaten and raped like the others—you saw the pictures of those women, right?” he again said nothing, but nodded slightly—he had. “I’m your best shot to get her back safe and sound.”
He looked at her with disbelief. “What could you do to get Lilly back?”
“For one thing, the police in this case are incompetent. They tell you that Lilly could be in danger if her name gets out. But then fail to protect information that would connect her to the abduction.”
She displayed a credit card and held it in front of his face. It was Lilly’s Visa card. He tried to snatch it, but she pulled it back. “Where did you get that?” he asked with annoyance.
Then the card was gone. She turned quickly to see a wiry man with thick gelled hair. He wore a cheap, ill-fitting suit with no tie and too much cologne. “I’ll take that, thank you very much.”
“Give that back, Brandon,” she ordered.
The man in the suit smiled coolly. “I’ll tell you what, Jessi. You stop messing with my investigation and I’ll look past this whole stolen evidence thing,” he held up the credit card to make his point. “And if you release any names in regards to this investigation, you’ll be heading to jail. And you don’t really strike me as a prison kinda girl.”
The comment extracted a laugh from her cameraman and she shot a dirty look in his direction.
The man in the suit nodded at a couple of bored airport security guards, who took great pleasure in escorting the pushy reporter and her cameraman out of the area.
He turned to Darren. “Mr. McLaughlin, I’m Officer Longa of the Chandler Police. Please come with me, we have a lot to talk about concerning your wife.”
Chapter 6
Darren was led to a holding room beneath Sky Harbor. It was a place usually reserved for unruly passengers taken off flights. The potential terrorists made the headlines, but 99% of the time the cause of the disturbance was alcohol and not Jihad.
The no-frills room was made up of just a metal table surrounded by uncomfortable-looking chairs, and a water cooler. Officer Longa had said nothing during their journey to the bowels of the airport, which included numerous flights of stairs in stifling heat. But Longa turned into a smiling greeter when they reached the room. He introduced Darren to two other plain-clothes officers. One named Madkins, who looked like an aging surfer with a mop of frosted blond hair. The other, Gutierrez, was a large, menacing man with a Fu Manchu mustache.
They all sat around the table, except Longa, who continued to pace the room with nervous energy. Gutierrez and Madkins began looking through folders marked McLaughlin. When Darren had called to inform the local police that it was his wife on that video, they already had known her identity. It confounded him at first, but during his cross-country flight he had time to conclude that it was likely there was more surveillance footage than what was released, probably including the license plate number on the SUV she was driving. Thanks to the reporter, Darren now knew that Lilly must have given her credit card to the attendant. The surprise would have been if they didn’t know her identity.
But at the same time, just seeing a police file with their name on it brought a sick feeling to his stomach. The heat began to smother his senses and he started to feel lightheaded.
Longa noticed this, and asked, “Are you all right, Mr. McLaughlin?”
“I’m fine,” Darren replied. He didn’t want any delays in the hunt for Lilly. “I’ve had a tough few hours.”
“I can imagine,” Madkins said. “You seem nervous, I’m guessing that is related to worry for your wife.”
“I just want to get Lilly back.”
“Don’t we all, Mr. McLaughlin, don’t we all,” Gutierrez stated, then got up and filled a plastic cup with water and brought it to Darren. “Here you go, don’t want you to pass out on us. We have a lot to discuss.”
Longa stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the table, beside Darren. “So you’re a pilot, Mr. McLaughlin?”
Darren thought the pilot uniform should have been a dead giveaway, not to mention that these guys had six hours to gather information about him. But as with his commanding officers in the Air Force, he knew it was best to keep the answers short and never question. Besides, Lilly was the one who was good with the sarcastic remarks.
“Yes.”
Madkins continued to flip through the folder like he was cramming for a final exam. “I see you were in the Air Force?”
“Yes, I graduated from the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. I put in ten years before joining the civilian ranks. I now fly commercial.”
“Air Force Academy, wow, muy impressivo, Señor McLaughlin,” Gutierrez interjected.
“I’ll bet you had one of those cool pilot nicknames?” Madkins said, feigning interest.
“That’s only in the movies,” Gutierrez shot back at his partner. “But what they do teach you in the military is how to use weapons, isn’t that right, Mr. McLaughlin?”
Darren wasn’t sure how this was helping, but continued to conform. “We went to basic training like all military. But I mostly flew cargo missions. I was never involved in any combat.”
Longa got things back on track, “So the reason you were in New York was because you were working...as a pilot?”
“That is correct.”
“Do you have a schedule set in advance?” Longa continued.
“Yes, we put in bids at the beginning of each month for our trips. They are based on seniority. So I’ve known about this trip for weeks. Can you please tell me what this has to do with getting my wife back?”
Longa frowned at Darren’s challenge. “Getting her back means finding the person who drove off in your vehicle. I’m trying to establish if someone might have been aware that you were planning to be out of town.”
Darren had assumed it was a random act. “So you’re saying that her abductor—this gang member—might have been planning this and waited until I was away?”
The three of them traded curious glances.
“Who said anything about gang members?” Gutierrez asked with an incredulous look.
“Do you know something we don’t know?” Madkins chipped in.
Darren remained confused. “I saw it on the news—fourth woman this month.”
“If it’s on the news it must be true,” Madkins added with his smirk.
“Ever heard of a copycat crime, Mr. McLaughlin?” Longa asked.
“Sure—when someone makes a crime look like one that already took place—you think that might be what happened with Lilly?”
Madkins and Guitierrez broke into laughter. Longa shushed the comedy team, before continuing with a serious face, “How have things been in your marriage, Mr. McLaughlin. The spark still alive?”
“Things are fine.”
“Fine, as in you’re doing it five times a week, or fine as in nobody is filing charges against each other?”
“Things are fine,” Darren repeated, his tone turning angry.
Longa remained serious. “Things will only be fine when we get Lilly back. And the only way we’re going to do that is if you start telling us the truth. You do want us to find your wife, don’t you, Mr. McLaughlin?”
Chapter 7
“We’ve had a little rough patch, okay? I don’t know exactly what you’re accusing me of, but if you don’t want to find Lilly, then I’ll do it myself,” Darren had officially lost his cool.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. McLaughlin. We’re not accusing you of anything,” Longa said with arms in the air, surrender style. “We’re just covering all our bases. But we’re convinced that your wife’s disappearance is connected to your flight schedule.”
Madkins and Gutierrez nodded their heads.
Darren did his best tough-guy nod and responded, “Good.”
“When was the last time you had contact with your wife?” Longa asked.
Darren suddenly remembered the photos she attached to her text. It seemed like years ago. “She sent me these photos. I assume it was right before she was attacked,” he said, reaching into his front pocket and handing them the phone.
Madkins practically drooled on the photos, “Every man’s fantasy indeed, you are one lucky man.”
He passed the phone to Gutierrez. “Ooo-la-la—that is one hot tamale.”
The phone finally arrived in Longa’s hands and he looked impressed. “A woman like that must be hard to hold onto for a simple man like yourself, Mr. McLaughlin...no offense. I’d be jealous all the time.”
That sounded like another accusation. Darren understood that the husband was always the first suspect, but it wasn’t helping to get Lilly back, and that’s all he cared about at the moment. He then remembered something else. “She had GPS on her cell phone. Can’t you use cell phone towers to trace it?”
They all laughed.
“Maybe we should get him a badge,” Madkins quipped.
With a raised hand, Longa quieted his troops once again, and then said, “That’s the first thing we did. It’s called triangulation, and it led us to a dumpster at the local high school where your wife works. The phone was too smashed for us to positively ID it, but we are confident it was Lilly’s phone. It was destroyed and ditched, so we are dealing with people who know what they’re doing.”
“Which makes it interesting that you would bring the cell phone up,” Gutierrez said in an accusatory tone, no longer laughing.
Darren chose not to take the bait, remaining silent.
“Do you have any idea why your wife was out at that gas station on a Sunday night?” Longa asked.
Darren shrugged. “I don’t know. But Lilly always let the gas gauge run low. Maybe she was filling up so she wouldn’t have to worry about it in the morning.”
Longa’s look said he didn’t buy the answer. “The night manager said she seemed in a rush. What would be the hurry if she was just filling her tank before going home to get a good night’s rest?”
“She’s always on the go—it’s just the way she’s wired. Nothing out of character,” Darren replied.
Madkins took another peek at the pictures that Lilly took of herself—pictures that were only meant for Darren. “And she is dressed to impress. That doesn’t look like a curl-up-with-a-book outfit.”
“Lilly always dresses like that. I’m a little more conservative, but she…”
“Your wife works at South Chandler High School, correct?” Longa interrupted.
Darren assumed he already knew the answer—it was obvious that he knew a lot more than he was letting on—but continued to go with the flow. “Yes—she taught junior and senior English.”
“You said she always dresses the same way. Does that include school?”
Darren had enough of them blaming the victim. “What are you getting at!?”
“I’m just saying that kids that age can be very impressionable.”
“Catch a glimpse of some leg and go into hormone overload...ah, those were the days,” Madkins interjected.
“Those are still your days. Bottom line is, hormones can make these teenagers do some crazy shit,” Gutierrez added.
Darren started to think along with them. Teenage hormones, knowledge that he was out of town... “Are you saying one of her students might have done this? And then made it look like a gang initiation?
Longa took out a fake pen and pretended to write down his theory. Another not-very-subtle way of letting him know they were the police and in charge. And as much as he wanted to storm out, he needed these jerks.
“Was she close to any specific students?” Longa asked.
“A lot of them. She always wanted to help—especially the ones who had tough upbringings, like herself. She certainly didn’t mean to lead any of them on.”
“I’m sure she didn’t. Did any of her students come over to your house, or meet with her outside of school?” Longa asked.
“She held tutoring sessions at our house on the weekends. But I met all of those kids and none of them gave off the vibe that they’d be capable of something like this.”
“Husbands can always tell that sort of stuff,” Longa said. “Were you always present for these sessions to perform your Jedi mind tricks?”
Darren ignored the sarcasm. “No, sometimes I was away, like this weekend.”
“Ever meet a Brett Buckley?”
The name surprised him. “Yes. He had moved here recently from Seattle or something like that. Do you think he was the one behind this?”
The officers had another hearty laugh at his expense, while Darren bit his tongue.
Finally Longa gathered himself enough to say, “It takes more than one person to pull off something like this.”
“It takes two to tango,” Madkins said, still chuckling.
“Lleva dos el tango,” Gutierrez seconded. “But my guess is you already know this, Mr. McLaughlin, even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself.”
Darren was tiring of the code-speak and inside jokes. “Let’s cut the bull. Tell me what happened to my wife!”
Longa pointed his finger in Darren’s direction. “I’ll tell you exactly what happened.”
Just as the words were about to fly out of his mouth, the doors of the room swung open and the cavalry barged in—led by a silver-haired man in an expensive suit. “This interrogation is over,” he announced.
Longa fought against it, but the man pulled rank. “This case is now officially under the jurisdiction of the FBI. One more stunt like this, and I’ll personally make sure you’re writing parking tickets for the next thirty years.”
Longa and his team were ushered out. When the doors shut, the distinguished looking man sat beside Darren and gave him a disarming smile.
“Mr. McLaughlin, I’m Agent LaPoint of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I’m your new best friend.”
Chapter 8
The US Attorney pounced off his chair in his Manhattan office and picked up the ringing phone. “Eicher here.”
“It’s LaPoint.”
Eicher felt a twinge of relief. He’d been waiting for this call since he got the news last night.
“Well?” he asked, having run out of patience.
“I just finished grilling the husband—the pilot. He either doesn’t know shit, or he should win the Oscar. And I don’t mean he should be happy to be nominated, he should win the damn thing.”
Eicher sighed. Another dead end. How could he be living under the same roof and have absolutely no clue? As a federal prosecutor, he believed in the standard of reasonable doubt, but as a card-carrying cynic, he was always skeptical of convenient coincidences. So he needed it proven beyond any reasonable doubt that the McLaughlins’ swift infiltration into Brett Buckley’s life was a random act.
“But we got lucky,” LaPoint tried to paint a bright side.
“And how would that be?”
“The local police had beat us to him, and they were going to get an arrest warrant for the wife.”
Eicher winced. He knew the type of publicity that these kinds of cases generated. Signing an arrest warrant would have been the equivalent of putting the kid before a firing squad. “I thought Fitzpatrick said that situation was under control.”
“If it was, then I wouldn’t be sweating my balls off in the Arizona desert, would I? Fitzpatrick ordered the local police to shut down their investigation weeks ago. We gave them no explanation other than our boy Buckley had a higher calling. But after last night’s events, I think they saw it as a chance to ride in like heroes.”
LaPoint gave the impression that Eicher should thank him for messing up his case, and probably getting Nick killed in the process. “Something sparked the kid—set him off. I interviewed him a hundred times over the past year. He was unflappable and levelheaded. This move was completely out of character. What do you think happened?”
LaPoint chuckled. “I think we both know what happened. And just the fact you asked means it hasn’t happened for you in a while.”
Eicher conceded the point. It was a logical explanation, especially when recent events were factored in. But when it came to this case, he had learned that nothing was as it seemed to be. He thought for a moment, before saying, “I think it goes deeper.”
“I think you and the kid have something in common.”
“Which is?”
“You’re both spooked. Seeing things that aren’t there. I think it’s straightforward—the local cops scared him when they threatened to make an arrest on the other matter. He knows who he’s dealing with—so it makes sense that he got scared. He even told Fitzpatrick that he saw Zubov scouting him out at the mall, which we both know couldn’t be true, because if it was, he’d be dead. So he did what we all do when we get scared—we run to our mommy—in his case, a mother figure. Traveling in pairs gives the illusion of safety, so that’s what they did.”
Eicher knew that panic was the first step toward tragedy. And just the thought of the soulless killing machine named Zubov made him ill. But he also knew what the kid had been through in the past year, so maybe LaPoint was right—the fear drove him to confide in his favorite teacher. In the end, she was the only one he trusted and she helped him concoct a plan to get him out of Dodge before Zubov got him. He wasn’t going to stick around to find out if he was real or imagined.
Eicher wondered if Lilly McLaughlin really understood exactly what she had gotten herself into. But then he had another thought. A troubling one. Perhaps she knew exactly what she’d done.
He flipped through a folder that had been sitting in the same spot on his desk for the past year. One photo was of Nick’s father, Karl Zellen, who wore a fashionable bullet hole in his forehead. The next picture was of his mother, Paula, lying lifelessly in the lion’s den, sprayed with bullets. But the photos that grabbed him by the throat—the ones that turned this case into an obsession for him—were the ones of Nick’s girlfriend, Audrey Mays. It was a warning to Nick about the perils of testifying against Alexei Sarvydas.
The before was a fresh-faced twenty-something with the smile of an idealist. The after was just a torso. No head—no hands—no feet. A corpse that some of his more heartless colleagues repulsively referred to as “Bob.” It was a favorite tactic of the Russian mob, and perfected by the Sarvydas Organizatsiya, to make identification virtually impossible.
“We need to find him ASAP,” Eicher stated, attempting to hide the desperation in his voice. “If Sarvydas gets to him first, they will be picking up his pieces with a wet-vac.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, counselor,” LaPoint replied, deadpan. “I thought Viktor Sarvydas was just a hardworking music mogul on vacation in Israel. A heartwarming rags to riches story.”
Even in jest, LaPoint outlined two of the biggest challenges in taking on Russian crime bosses like Sarvydas. First of all, they hide behind legitimate businesses. In Sarvydas’ case, it was Sarvy Music, an international music empire with a knack for churning out pop stars.
The other problem was the ease of their flight. Any Russian mobster worth his vodka had Israeli citizenship and passport—taking advantage of the Israeli policy of Right of Return, which allows citizenship and safe haven to all those with Jewish heritage and doesn’t bend for any extradition laws. But most Russian mobsters were Jewish in passport only. Eicher doubted that Viktor Sarvydas had ever seen the inside of a synagogue.
“Just find the kid,” Eicher barked into the phone and hung up.
Chapter 9
After hanging up with LaPoint, Eicher desperately needed a fix of good news. It was just past nine in the morning in New York, and the offices in Foley Square were beginning to fill up with the wretched rumblings of Monday morning.
Eicher viewed the hustle and bustle through the glass partition of his office and noticed a man who didn’t fit in with the conservative suit-and-tie attire of the US Attorney’s Office. And he was headed directly into his office.
The intruder didn’t alarm Eicher. In fact, he was happy to see Ivan, even if he wasn’t thrilled with the heavy scent of fish he brought with him.
“Ivan—it’s April, not January,” he greeted his visitor, noticing his fur cap and dense beard. He carried a cooler one might use to store bait. “Going fishing?”
Ivan displayed a toothless grin and spoke in his thick Russian accent, “We already do fishing today, and I think you be interested what we caught.”
Eicher nodded his head, indicating him to continue.
“Moziaf Butcher Shop was raided this morning, investigating last week’s shooting. I could have saved them time, they, of course, found nothing to connect Moziafs to murder. But they came across something that might interest you.”
Ivan was an undercover cop in Brighton Beach—a section of Brooklyn that is the home office for the Russian mob in the United States. That’s not to say the majority of the residents weren’t hard working and law-abiding citizens, but Eicher was only interested in those who broke the laws. Ivan was one of the rare few willing to talk, and only Eicher and a few colleagues above his pay grade knew Ivan’s true identity. He very rarely showed up here—there are only so many times you can claim to being hassled by the feds without suspicions being raised—so Eicher knew this must be important.
Like many Russians, he emigrated to Brighton Beach in the 1970s, and became a popular street vendor in Little Odessa. He was known for his homemade foods that included everything from pirogi to pastry shells filled with spicy pork. Word of mouth attracted none other than the don of Brighton Beach, Viktor Sarvydas. He was so impressed with Ivan that he made him his personal caterer at his popular club, Sarvy’s.
But at heart, Ivan was a man of honor. And after observing Sarvydas’ unspeakable acts, Ivan chose to become what the Russians call a musor, or informant. While he was never able to get Sarvydas, he did have success in the arrest and prosecutions of many of his dangerous underlings. He was so successful that the NYPD offered him a full-time position.
“So what was this shooting about?” Eicher made conversation as he accepted the ice chest and set it on his cluttered desk.
Ivan shrugged. “Who knows? Moziafs are crazy. Maybe they no kill anybody this week and needed fix.”
No statement could better sum up the Moziafs—a husband and wife team of killers. They had been working for Sarvydas in recent years, although their allegiance was usually with the highest bidder for their services.
Oleg, the husband, was an enormous four-hundred-pound former Olympic weightlifting champion from the Soviet Union. He loved three things—killing, steroids, and his wife, Vana. She was arguably the more ruthless of the two, and claimed that killing was like sex for them. Ivan joked if that were the case then they sure were getting more than the average couple. The shooting connected to this morning’s raid was the typical work of the Moziafs—six people shot in Coney Island in the middle of the day with hundreds of people there, yet no witnesses.