Storm Season (4 page)
Authors: Erica Spindler
“There are other options, M.C. Erik’s a powerful and wealthy man. A target for those who might want to profit from hurting him."
One of those places. God, no. Not yet. “Maybe he’s hurt. He likes to run. Especially when he needs to work things out. Maybe he fell. Broke his leg or--”
“If he went for a run, why leave his vehicle running?”
It didn’t make sense. She knew it but wasn’t ready to fully face it.
“I grew up on this side of town. I know this park. There’s a trail along a--”
A large retention pond. Not two hundred yards away. Over the hill.
Whitney Bello had drowned.
“How despondent was he, M.C.?”
M.C. reacted to the thought and ran for the hill. Kitt called after her, but she didn’t stop until she topped the hill. The pond, it’s surface as smooth as glass, mocked her.
What did you hope to see, Mary Catherine?
She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. She had to slow down, get a grip.
Do it, Mary Catherine. Focus.
She reached the edge of the pond, scanned the perimeter. Nothing. She started around it, eyes darting back and forth. The sun broke out from behind a cloud. Something winked at her from the weeds.
She went to it. An iPhone 5. Or what was left of one. It’d been smashed. Or stomped. And tossed.
Erik had an iPhone 5.
She sank to her knees. Kitt came up beside her. “You don’t know that it’s his."
M.C. agreed, though that was a lie. In her heart, she knew. The premonition. Her dread.
“I called in Canataldi and Baker."
M.C. looked up at her and frowned. “Why? We’ve got this."
“I’m handing it over, ." It’s the smart thing to do."
“That’s bullshit. "She got to her feet. “I’m okay. My shit’s together."
“It’s not, M.C." You’re not. Besides, we’re working Bello."
“We’ll hand her to them. This is Erik, for God’s sake! I’m not--”
Kitt caught her hands, looked her dead in the eyes. “Let it go. It’s done."
Furious, she freed her hands and stalked back to the scene. Canataldi and Baker had arrived. Neither of them looked her directly in the eyes.
Typhoid Mary. Get involved with Mary Catherine Riggio and it ended badly for you. Always.
She marched up to them. “You tell me you’ve got this. Look me in the eyes and tell me that. No fucking up."
“We’ve got this, Riggio,” Baker said. “I promise you."
Canataldi concurred. “For you, Riggio. We’ll locate him."
“I found a smashed iPhone near the pond. It could be Erik’s. "She cleared her throat. “We need to know the last call he made and received. The cell tower pings."
“We’ll take care of it."
This was Erik. How did she let go?
“I want to know everything,” she said. “Every step of the way."
“Absolutely."
“I’ll be on you like white on fricking rice. Don’t even contemplate slacking off or giving up, because I’ll kick your--”
“We won’t. "Baker laid a hand on her shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. “You have my word."
THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS were a nightmare. Baker and Canataldi questioned her, then questioned her again. Personal questions. About her and Erik’s relationship, the events of the night before and about his state of mind.
As of this moment, no one had heard from him. Every possible contact had been called, from the various divisions of his company, SunCorp, to the members of the many boards he sat on. His personal calendar had been clear for this morning. Warrant to access mobile phone tracks had been given and delivered to Erik’s carrier.
The weather had begun to turn. The wind had kicked up, the sky turning an ominous slate gray.
The squad room went silent as M.C. entered. Suddenly everybody was too busy to even look up. News travelled fast in the ranks; bad news travelled faster.
Kitt touched her arm. “I need to bring Sal up to speed. You’ll be okay.”
It wasn’t a question but an affirmation. M.C. smiled grimly. “Thanks.”
“Detective Riggio?”
She looked over her shoulder at Nan, the unit secretary. “Messages?”
“Your pizza.”
“I didn’t order a pizza.”
“It came for you an hour and a half ago. A Mama Riggio’s. Maybe your brothers sent it?”
Her three youngest brothers, Tony, Max and Frank, did that sometimes. Sent over a pie when the restaurant was slow or they knew she was in the middle of an intense investigation and needed nourishment.
“I was afraid to leave it on your desk or in the lunch room. Figured it’d be gone before you got back.”
“Thanks, Nan." She retrieved the pie.
“Detective Riggio?" M.C. looked back. The woman’s face puckered with concern. “I heard about . . . your friend and . . . I hope everything turns out okay.”
A lump formed in her throat. Unable to speak, she just nodded then walked away.
The lunch room was deserted. Usually just the thought of one of her brother’s pies had her mouth watering. Today, nothing. Though she had no desire to eat, her body needed the fuel.
She flipped open the box. And caught her breath. A smiley face. Made out of pepperoni.
It grinned up at her, mocking. Somehow sinister.
Gotcha!
it seemed to say.
Joke’s on you!
Her brothers didn’t mean it that way. Even if they were three sadistic sons-of-bitches who hated her guts, they didn’t know about Erik. Sal had put a gag order on the case. Erik was an important man in Rockford, from an important family. His disappearance would be big news.
But the timing was like a kick in the gut anyway.
She stared at it, a sick feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. She opened her phone and dialed Mama Riggio’s. The hostess answered. “Hey Judy. One of my ass kissing brothers around?”
“They’re in a meeting. And judging by the volume of their discussion, interrupting would be a very bad idea.”
They did that. Loved each other to death and wanted to kill each other at the same time.
“Just wanted to thank them for the pizza they sent over this afternoon.”
“Wasn’t that cute?”
Not quite how she’d describe it.
“Adorable,” she said.
“But it wasn’t from them.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“They didn’t order it.”
A chill moved over her. “Who did, Judy?”
“It was a phone order. He said he was a friend of yours and wanted to brighten your day. Hold on--”
M.C. heard her shuffling through the order book.
“Here it is. Mr. Foo Beech.”
M.C. frowned. “Foo Beech? Could you spell that?”
“Sure. F-U-" Judy stopped, obviously realizing Mr. Beech had been sending M.C. more than a pizza.
Fuck you, Bitch.
It was happening again.
M.C.’s knees buckled. She sat hard, thoughts racing.
“God, I’m so sorry . . . It was a phone order--”
Someone wanted to hurt her. They were doing it through Erik.
“I never would have--”
Her fault. He was in danger, maybe dead. Because of her.
Kitt entered the break room. “I heard you had a Mama Riggio’s--" She stopped short. “What happened?”
M.C. motioned to the pizza box.
“--believe me, M.C. I never--”
She cut her off. “It’s okay, Judy. I know you wouldn’t." From the corners of her eyes, she saw Kitt lift the box’s lid; heard her soft exhalation of breath.
M.C. refocused on Judy. “How did he pay for the pie? Credit card?”
“He would have had to . . ." She sounded rattled. “I can’t think. I--”
“It’s okay, take all the time you need."
“Hold on, let me check." It took only a moment. “No, a gift card.”
“Do you keep a record of who purchases the cards?”
“No. Besides, it wasn’t one of ours. One of those pre-paid VISA gift cards.”
Outmaneuvered. Dammit!
“Thanks, Judy. Look, do me a favor. Don’t bother my brothers with this right now. It’s nothing, okay? And you know how they get.”
Judy did know. She had five brothers and their protective streaks ran a mile wide. Never mind that she carried a gun and could take down a man twice her size, nobody messed with
their
sister.
M.C. ended the call and looked at Kitt. “Whoever took Erik did it to punish me.”
“You got all that from a smiley face pizza?”
“Yeah. Sent to me compliments of Mr. F-U-Beech." She gave Kitt a moment to process, then went on. “A phone order, paid for with a gift card.”
“Which they keep no records of.”
“Exactly.”
“You don’t know for certain--”
“A couple hours after Erik disappears, I receive this with the message Fuck You, Bitch. What do you think?”
“Someone you busted. Testified against.”
She nodded. “Someone with an ax to grind. Recently released or paroled.”
“Who comes to mind?” Kitt asked.
“Frickin’ everyone.”
“Okay, let’s slow this down. Mama Riggio’s have caller ID?”
“I don’t know.”
“You find out. If they don’t, we get the number through the carrier. I’m sure Mama Riggio’s will have a record of the exact time that order came in. In the meantime, I’ll bring Baker and Canataldi up to speed.”
M.C. was already dialing. “I’ll access the database, see if any of my angry scumbags have hit the street recently.”
MAMA RIGGIO’S DID, INDEED, have caller ID. In addition, their system logged the number of every phone order.
The Smiley Face pizza number belonged to a nasty piece of work named Dickey Larson. An all-around dirtbag. In and out of jail all his life. Drug abuser, wife beater, cheat and thief. Last go-around, M.C. had convinced his wife to testify against him, then loaned her the money to relocate. Dickey hadn’t made a secret of being mighty pissed off.
A few minutes ago they’d hauled his ass in for questioning; Baker had handed M.C. the honor and she was chomping at the bit to get started.
She faced the slimy little worm across the interview table. “You like pizza, Dickey?”
He smirked. “It’s all right.”
“Like Mama Riggio’s?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“How about me, Dickey. How do you feel about me?”
He couldn’t hide the hatred burning in his eyes. She could feel the animosity radiating off him in waves. “No feelings at all.”
“At your trial you called me a bitch. You said you’d make me pay.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Isn’t it true that you blame me for your wife leaving you?”
“Good riddance.”
“You ever hear the name Erik Sundstrand?”
“Nah.”
Not even a blink. “You sure? Sundstrand’s a pretty recognizable name around here.”
“I’ve heard the name Sundstrand before. But I don’t know that dude.”
“You order a pizza today?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” She flipped up the lid. “This pizza?”
Another smirk. Turd couldn’t help himself. “Since when did ordering a pizza become a crime?”
“So you did?”
“Whatever.”
“Not whatever, Mr.
Beech
. Why did you send me this?”
“Who’s Mr. Beech? I don’t know nobody by that name.”
She cocked her head. “You’re not very smart, are you?”
That pissed him off. She saw it and smiled. “That’s why you keep getting caught. Stupid.”
His face flamed red. “Shut up.”
“Just a big, stupid loser. Isn’t that right, Dickey? You’re just a--”
“Fuck you, bitch!”
She nodded and sat back in her chair. “Now that’s exactly what I’m talking about. That’s a threat. Sending the cop who busted you that message is not how you stay out of trouble.”
There was no trace of the smirk now. “It’s a happy face. It was supposed to make you smile.”
“And the F-U Bitch. Was that supposed to make me smile, too?”
He didn’t respond and she went on. “You know what else is stupid? Kidnapping somebody. Really stupid.”
“What does that have to do with me? Nuthin’.”
“Aggravated kidnapping carries up to a thirty-year sentence. For a repeat offender like you, the maximum would definitely be in order.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I convinced your wife to press charges against your ugly ass.”
“And I did my time. Every damned day of it!”
“What did you think about while you were in? About your wife? The fact that I convinced her to press charges? That she testified against you?”
He didn’t reply and she went on. “You promised you’d hurt me. That you’d make me pay.”
“It’s a fucking pizza! What’s the big deal?”
“You told me--” she read what he’d shouted after the verdict, as they led him away. “Wait bitch. Just wait. I’m going to make you pay.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“I was pissed off. What would you have said?”
“I’m more interested in your actions. You wanted to hurt me. You blamed me for your wife leaving.”
“The heat of the moment.”
“Where were you this morning?”
“Home.”
“Alone?”
“My wife left me. Remember?”
“Did you arrange a meeting with Erik Sundstrand?”
“I told you I don’t know the dude!”
“You lured him out to Anna Page Park? And once he was there, you abducted him.”
“Holy shit!” He jumped to his feet. “No. No way! I sent you a pizza. That’s all. I wanted to mess with you, that’s all! I swear to God! And I want my fucking lawyer!”
“M.C.? Kitt?”
Baker. He motioned them out to the hallway. “Got Sundstrand’s phone tracks. The last number he received doesn’t match Larson’s.”
“IT DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING, Kitt,” M.C. said, minutes later. They stood in the observation room, watching as Larson alternately paced and sat slumped in the chair, head in his hands. Baker and Canataldi had gone for a burger while they waited for the Public Defender. “He used a pre-paid, throw away cell phone to contact Erik. So there wouldn’t be a trail.”
“So why didn’t he use it to order the pizza?”
“Because he’s a dumb shit.”
“Exactly. He’s not a thinker, M.C. He’s a bully. I don’t think he’s your guy. This is too big for him.”
