Don't Look Now (26 page)

‘Are you on the fax phone?’

‘Diana?’

Silence.

‘
Saila?
’

Silence.

‘
Answer me
,’ Paris said. ‘Who
is
this?’

After a few moments, the woman said, ‘I’m going to hang up.’

‘No!’

He waited. The electronic hiss gave him hope that the caller was still on the line.

‘Is Melissa all right?’

‘Of course.’

‘Put her on. Let me speak to her.’

‘Right away, detective. Listen—’

‘No,
you
listen. You’re going to tell me where my daughter is, and I’m going to come and get her. One scenario, that’s it.’

The caller laughed. ‘I’m not going to hurt your daughter, detective. Not yet, anyway. Because there’s still a way out of this. It involves the destruction of evidence, though. I hope you don’t have a problem with that.’

‘Not when it comes to my daughter,’

‘Good. By the way, how
did
I look to you in those pictures?’

Paris wanted to snap the phone in half. He remained silent.

‘I want an answer. I want the
right
answer.’

Paris took a deep breath. ‘You looked good.’

‘Did you want to fuck me when you saw them?’

He had to play the game. ‘Yes.’

‘Did you get hard?’

‘Yes.’

Another fun house laugh. ‘You said the right thing, detective.’

Paris heard a car pass loudly by the caller’s location.

‘Speaking of photographs, I’ll prove to you that Melissa is fine. You see that table by the front door?’

Paris gripped the phone a little more tightly. ‘Yes.’

‘Open the drawer.’

Paris found that the phone cord nearly reached the table. He leaned over and opened the drawer. Inside was another photograph. It was a color picture of Melissa sitting on the couch, not five feet from where he stood. His daughter looked about eighteen in the photograph, make-up and teased hair having transformed her into a woman. She wore an oversized white terry-cloth robe.

‘You sick
fuck
.’

‘She looks really good there, doesn’t she?’

‘My hand to God, I will hunt you down. You touch her and you don’t
see
a fucking courtroom. You hear me?’

‘Like a little lady.’

‘
She’s eleven years old!
’

‘She told me that she’s nearly twelve. That’s almost a teenager. Something tells me that you’re not going to cope too well with the hormone years.’

Paris took a deep, calming breath. It had absolutely no effect upon him whatsoever. ‘Do you have any idea what I’d like to do to you right now?’

‘Girls just wanna have fun, Jack.’

‘
Who the fuck is this?
’

‘Back to business. I am going to say these things once. I want you to listen, do precisely what I tell you to do, and not to speak, not even one word. Can you hear me, kitty cat?’

Silence.

‘Good boy. But you may answer me this one time.’

‘Yes, I can hear you.’

‘Good. And please don’t think that I can’t see you. I can see everything you’re doing. Nod if you understand.’

Paris scanned the night-black windows of the kitchen, living room and dining room, confirming that every light in the house was on and all the window shades were up. She could have been in any one of ten different buildings. He did as he was told.

‘I want you to hold up all the photographs and all the notes you’ve received this evening,’ the woman said. ‘I want to see them.’

Paris reached into his pocket and retrieved the three-by-five cards and the photographs. He held them high in the air.

‘Tear them into very small pieces and drop the pieces on the table.’

Paris obeyed.

‘Do the same thing with Melissa’s photo.’

Paris had no problem destroying the picture. He let the jagged pieces fall to the table.

‘Now, obviously, I can never set foot in that house again. On the coffee table you’ll find two or three small tea candles. I want you to get them and bring them back to the phone. You have ten seconds. No tricks. Go now.’

Paris put the phone down, crossed the living room and did as he was instructed to do, a million bytes of departmental procedure flashing through his mind, an avalanche of rage in his gut. He brought the tea candles back to the table, picked up the phone and listened for further instructions.

‘Light the candles and place them on the table in front of you, near the base of the fax machine, where the paper comes out.’

Paris found a match in his pants pocket and lit the candles. Before he could stop himself, he said: ‘Done.’

‘I told you not to speak.’

‘I—’

‘You say one more word and I cut little angel here in half.’

Paris shut his eyes tightly and bore the next fifteen seconds in complete silence, the image of Karen Schallert’s neck wound flooding his mind, the scent of burning wax filling his nostrils.

‘Now, go into the kitchen, under the table, and bring back the throw rug. Place it on the floor beneath the fax machine. Make it look like it belongs there. Ten seconds. Go now.’

Paris sprinted to the kitchen. He peered under the table but there was no rug. He looked frantically around the kitchen and was just about to grab a dish towel and go back out and say that he had the rug, when he spotted it, bunched up against the baseboard near the sink. He ran back to the phone, picked it up and breathed heavily into the mouthpiece, announcing his return.

‘If everything is in place, say the word “yes”.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Just one more thing to do. I want you to pull that bar cart next to the phone. Position it very close. Five seconds this time. Go.’

Paris found the bar cart just around the corner in the living room and did as the woman had instructed. He could smell the sour, grainy scent of rum coming from one of the uncapped bottles.

‘Take the bottle of Ron Rico 151, open it, and spill half of it on the rug. Leave the open bottle on its side.’

Paris did as he was told.

‘Now move the candles to the edge of the table. Like someone put them there at a party.’

Again Paris complied, making sure the candles would fall as planned. He figured there was no point in trying to sabotage this. The last thing he wanted to do right now was disappoint this woman. He knew what this set-up was about: destroying the evidence, collecting the insurance and beating the arson investigators, who were some of the savviest people in all of law enforcement. She would say that she’d had a get-together, she left the house with the candles still lit, she got a fax while she was out and the next thing anybody knew—

‘Grunt if it’s done.’

Paris grunted.

‘Now, you know and I know that we can’t have you walking out of there with anything, so what I want, right now, is for you to strip to the waist. Everything off. Do it.’

Paris decided that he couldn’t take the chance that she was bluffing about being able to see him. He dropped the phone and pulled his shirt, jacket, tie and undershirt over his head as one unit. Unfortunately, his shoulder holster and weapon came with it. He picked up the phone again.

‘When I see you run out of the house I want to see your hands empty and your pockets turned inside out. Front and back. If you understand, say so.’

‘I understand.’

‘Where is your cell phone?’

Paris nearly spoke.

‘You may answer.’

‘In the car.’

‘Good. I’m going to give you exactly ten seconds from the moment I say go to reach your car. I can see it very clearly and I have a very good watch. If it takes you one second longer, bad things happen. Once you get to your car, take your phone out, then go across the street and wait on the RTA platform under the lights. Understand?’

Silence.

‘Saila says talk.’

‘I understand.’

‘Oh, and there are two things you should know about me, Jack. One, I don’t hurt children. And two, I’m no
fanatic
about that.’ She paused, with Paris stretched nearly halfway to the door, trying to get a jump on her command. ‘If I’m satisfied,’ she continued, ‘we’ll proceed to step two in our game. I will call you, but we will not talk very long. We’re not going to give anyone time to triangulate the call. Be sure you are somewhere there is a strong signal. Are you ready?’

Paris said nothing.

Saila laughed. ‘Oh, just
go
.’

He made the trip in less than eight seconds.

The cold night air braced Paris as he ran, sweating and shirtless, onto the porch. About halfway to his car, Paris panicked for a moment, thinking that he had left his keys in his jacket pocket, inside a house that was set, at any moment, to catch fire. Then he remembered that he had stashed them under the passenger seat. He hadn’t known what to expect when he went inside 15203 Tarleton Street, and because he had more than once physically engaged a criminal only to find that after the dust settled, things like keys and wallets and watches and rings and lighters had been flung into oblivion, he had decided to leave his keys in the car.

He reached his car, well within the time limit the woman had given him.

And that’s when he heard the voice.

‘Don’t move.’ It was a calm, confident request that came from behind Paris and to his left, just on the other side of the car.

Paris froze.

‘Put your hands on top of your head and interlace your fingers.’

Paris did as he was told, a feeling of relief instantly washing over him. It was a cop. He waited for the next instruction, even though he knew what it was going to be.

‘Now turn around, slowly, and face me.’

Paris spun slowly to his right. About halfway, he knew.

‘
Jack
,’ Danny Lawrence said. ‘Jesus
Christ
, Jack.’

Even though they knew each other, Paris kept his hands raised. Paris was pretty sure that Danny Lawrence, and all the other cops in the Fourth, patrolled in one-man units, but you never knew.

It took Danny a moment to realize that he still had his weapon pointed at a CPD detective. ‘Jesus. Sorry. Put your hands down, Jack.’ He holstered his weapon.

Paris took the opportunity to glance at the house. No flames yet.

‘Sorry, Danny,’ Paris said, trying to formulate his story on the fly. ‘I hope I didn’t, you know, get the adrenaline pumping
too
hard there.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing,’ Paris said, smiling, hoping his gold shield would carry the moment. It did.

‘Well, what
I’m
doing here is that I caught a call on this street. Report of a burglary in progress – 15203 Tarleton.’

Danny had given Paris his out. He went for it.

‘Yeah. I caught it too. I was dropping someone off at the RTA and I heard the call. So I swung the car up here and took a look.’ Paris stole another glance at the house. He had to get rid of Danny. ‘Nothing. False alarm.’

‘You’re a detective, Jack,’ Danny said. ‘Why would you handle a burglary call?’

‘Reflex, I guess. I was here.’

‘Is there anybody in the house?’

‘No,’ Paris said. ‘I checked all the doors and windows. Looked in with the flashlight. Nothing. False alarm.’

‘Well, maybe I should—’

‘Danny. It’s handled. It’s done.’

Danny looked at him, a little more skeptically than Paris would have liked. ‘You’ll call it in? You’ll clear it?’ he asked, turning his flashlight toward the house. He scanned the eaves, the porch, the bushes.

‘Absolutely,’ Paris said. He reached down and quickly turned his pockets back in.

‘Well …’ Danny began, now directing the flashlight toward Paris, ‘
okay
, I guess.’ He finally produced a smile and, with it, all the tension immediately dissolved. ‘You think you’ll ever tell me why you don’t have a fucking shirt on at this moment?’

Paris thought about it. ‘Yes, Danny. I will. I promise. It’s a good story.’

‘Something to do with the friend you just dropped off?’

‘Something like that.’

Danny Lawrence did a few more takes on Jack and the house. He clicked off his flashlight, turned toward his patrol car and said, ‘Have a good night, detective.’

‘You too, Danny. Thanks.’

As Danny drove off, Paris wondered why he had thanked him. Perhaps it was rooted in the feeling all police officers have after having a gun pointed at them and not getting shot.

THE WOMAN WAS
very sexy for an older gal. Kind of curvy but still muscular and fit. Jeff liked them fit. He also knew that a lot of the women that came into the Kinko’s on Mayfield Road didn’t give him a second look because of his complexion and all. This woman had actually
smiled
at him.

She wanted to send a fax.

‘That’s a local phone number, right?’

‘Yes,’ she said, handing him three pieces of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper. ‘The number’s at the top.’

‘Do you need a cover page?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Doesn’t cost any extra,’ Jeff said with his most winning eighteen-year-old smile. ‘And we’ve got lots of interesting designs.’

‘Just what I gave you is fine,’ she answered, sounding very authoritative, and suddenly very much like one of his teachers. He took the pages over to the fax machine, feeling like a kid being sent on an errand by a beautiful woman.

So what was new?

He loaded the pages, dialed the number.

‘
Hi … If you’re sending a fax, send it now. If you’d like to leave a voice message, wait for the beep. Thanks
…’

Jeff Trimble pressed the send button with consummate skill. After the pages made their rotation, he turned back to the woman, hoping he had exhausted his cache of really stupid moves. He had not.

‘Will that be all?’

She smiled. ‘Yes, that’s it. Jeff.’

‘That will be five-fifty-six,’ he said. The woman had seen his ID tag and called him by
name
. She handed him the correct change. He rang it up, handed her the receipt. She stared deeply into his eyes, apparently waiting for something.

‘Is there something else I can do for you?’ he asked.