Storm Season (5 page)

M.C. shook her head in denial of Kitt’s words. “He’s the one. He has to be.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The pizza, the same day Erik disappears? C’mon, Kitt, it’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Coincidences happen. They do, M.C.”

“Not this time.” She curved her hands into fists. “What about his threat to make me pay?”

“How many times have perps threatened you?”

Too many to count
. “He has Erik.” She heard the desperation in her voice; she knew Kitt must also.

“Maybe you’re right. This pizza stunt violates his parole, so he’s not going anywhere. It gives us time.”

“But what about Erik’s time? How much does he have?”

“Detectives?” Nan stuck her head in the door. “Public Defender’s arrived.”

M.C. started for the door; Kitt stopped her. “The team’s decided you should observe this time.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Try reasoning with Kitt, beg if she had to. The effort would be wasted, M.C. acknowledged. This time the decision was bigger than her partner.

“You’ve got to break him, Kitt. If he knows where Erik is--”

“We’ll find out.” Kitt squeezed her hand. “I promise.”

M.C. couldn’t sit. She paced. Waiting for them to begin. Feeling the clock ticking. Bringing the storm closer. Putting more distance between her and Erik.

The players assembled in the interview room. Exchanged greetings. Screw the pleasantries, she wanted to scream. Make the bastard talk. Anything. Do anything.

At her hip, her cell phone vibrated. “Detective Riggio,” she answered, gaze on the video monitor.

“Mary Catherine Riggio?” the man asked.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. He had her full attention now. “Yes?”

“Bill McCormack. SunCorp, COO. Erik introduced us at the Christmas party.”

The image of the man--short and balding, Harry Potter glasses, a sharp gaze that missed nothing--popped into her head. His voice sounded strange.

“Of course,” she said. “I assume you’re calling for an update but unfortunately, I have nothing to report.” 

“It’s not--” He cleared his throat. “I do. Have something to report.”

His voice shook badly. She grabbed the back of the chair for support, waiting for the rest. And for the moment her world crumbled beneath her feet.

“A Fed-Ex envelope,” he continued. “Waiting on my doorstep, when I got home tonight. In it was--” He choked back what sounded like a sob. “Erik’s driver’s license. And a bloody paper towel.”

DESPITE THE WIND AND blowing snow, M.C. made it to McCormack’s east side home in record time. She had simply reacted. Left HQ without a word to anyone. She’d rather have Kitt with her, but had feared the team would shut her out.

He was waiting and opened the door the moment she reached it. She stepped quickly inside, snapping it shut behind her.

“Where are they?” she asked.

He led her to the kitchen. He had laid the three items--envelope, license and paper towel--on the kitchen counter. She gazed at them, a metallic taste in her mouth. Fear. Deep and ice cold.

Her voice, however, was steady when she asked, “How much did you handle them?” 

“I didn’t know I shouldn’t,” he said, tone anguished. “The envelope was propped by the door . . . it’d been a long, upsetting day. I’ve been, we’ve all been so worried-- I grabbed it on my way inside, then opened it.”

He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t until I pulled out the . . . contents that I took a closer look at the envelope and saw--”

“That it didn’t have a shipping label.”

He nodded. “I didn’t know what else to do, so I called you.”

“You did the right thing.”

“What does it mean?”

She had a pretty good idea. One she couldn’t yet voice. She needed to steady herself first, slow her heart, tamp back the panic.

McCormack’s house phone rang. He looked at her, fear racing into his eyes.

“You need to get that,” she said softly.

He shook his head. It rang again.

She crossed to the device, noticed it had a speaker option. Time would run out. It always did.

It rang again. M.C. snatched up the device, handed it to him then pressed the speaker button.

“Hello,” he answered, voice sounding strangled.

“Mr. McCormack?”

“Yes?”

“I see you got your delivery.”

“Where’s Erik?”

M.C. closed her eyes in an attempt to listen with all her senses. To pick up something, in the man’s voice or from the background noise, that would lead to her to Erik.

“That’s a stupid question, McCormack. The smart question is, how do you get him back?”

“How do I get him back?”

“Seven hundred-fifty thousand dollars. Cash. Tomorrow at noon.”

“But I can’t get--”

“Yes, you can. And you will. Or Mr. Sundstrand dies.”

“Wait! Where do I--”

“Instructions will come. And, Mr. McCormack? No police. That would be very dangerous for Sundstrand.”

FOR THE FIRST TIME, M.C. truly understood the ‘No cops’ dilemma. Before, she’d been arrogant. Law enforcement was essential. The only way to catch the perp and save the victim. Heeding the kidnapper’s demands was, frankly, stupid. And an almost certain death sentence for the victim.

When it was someone you cared about, that arrogance became gut-wrenching fear. Of making a misstep. Causing a worst-case-scenario.

Faced with the threat of harm to Erik, she’d hesitated. Her, a cop. She had even considered taking on the kidnappers by herself. Wiring the phone, making the drop, all of it. Dangerous thoughts. More arrogance.

So she had made the call. The team had arrived at McCormack’s moments ago.

“Seven hundred-fifty grand,” Kitt was saying. “Why that amount? Sundstrand’s worth millions.”

“Small time hoods,” Baker offered. “Not so bright.”

“Or very bright,” McCormack said.

They all looked at him.

“I can write a check for up to that amount, my signature only. Anything more requires Erik’s as well.”

The group went silent. Kitt broke it first. “Not a guess then. They knew.”

“Someone on the inside.”

“Ex-employee? Family member maybe?”

M.C. looked at McCormack. “Who else has access to that information?”

“Any number of people. From department heads to our bank rep.”

M.C. jumped to her feet. “Dammit!”

“We’ve got another problem,” McCormack said. “A local bank doesn’t keep that kind of cash on hand. It’s going to have to come from a federal reserve bank.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me?”

“I wish I was, Detective.”

“I’d bet my right nut that’s something they didn’t know.” Canataldi looked at McCormack. “Where’s the nearest federal reserve?”

“Beloit.”

“Wisconsin?” M.C. sat back down. “They’re ankle deep in snow already.”

“And the bank doesn’t even open until nine.”

“If it opens at all. We’re all gonna be ass deep in this blizzard by then.”

The end of the world, Sorenstein had said. Her world.

“I’ll go,” M.C. said. “Arrange the drop, I’ll--”

“You’ll what? Break into the Federal Reserve Bank?” Kitt signaled Baker. “Time to call in the Bureau.”

6:10 a.m.

M.C. SAT AT HER DESK. She held onto her emotions as tightly as she could. At any minute, she could lose that grip. And spin out of her freaking mind. Totally lose it.

Progress had slowed to a crawl. The feds had taken over, shut them out. Shut her out. Luckily, Kitt and Baker were still on scene; information trickled through.

The Feds had been able to make things happen, although the timing was going to be tricky. Arrangements with the bank had been made, the highway department would assure the armored truck’s safe arrival at McCormack’s. The local suits would take it from there. Marked bills. Tracking device on the package. The agent making the drop. Snipers in place. All made nearly impossible by the blizzard.

The storm was the true wild card in this one.

She’d been unable to get the location of the drop out of Kitt. She understood both the need for secrecy and her partner’s position. But that didn’t mean she liked or accepted it.

Sal arrived. He nodded in her direction, then retreated to his office. Everybody was hunkering down. Waiting for the emergency calls to start flowing.

While the suits had been busy worrying about the money, the drop and making certain the perp was apprehended, she’d worried about Erik. Where he was. Whether he was protected from the elements, alive or dead. Or near death. Waiting for her to come.

Because he believed in her. Her abilities.

And in her feelings for him. Even when she didn’t believe in them herself.

“Good morning, Detective. Ready for our snow-a-geddon?”

She looked blankly up at the pathologist. “Frances?”

“Last time I checked.”

She didn’t smile and he cocked an eyebrow. “I have my report on Whitney Bello.”

That penetrated. “And?”

“Water in her lungs. Dirt and other organisms as well. Still waiting on toxicology.” He handed her a file. “I thought you’d appreciate a hard copy. Didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Thank you.” She stared at it a moment, then back up at him. “What’s your excuse for the hour? Chief put you on call?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Knocking a few out before the world comes to a screeching halt. Hope to God I haven’t stayed too long.”

“Better get out of here, then. If you get in trouble, call me. My cousin owns a plow service.”

He thanked her, then turned to leave. After a couple of steps, he looked back. “I’ve got a feeling about this one.”

She frowned. “The storm?”

“No. About Bello. This case. There’s more to it.”

The image of the crescent-shaped bruise popped into her head. “Something come up during--”

“Autopsy?” He shook his head. “Nothing but the fact she was a healthy young woman with her whole life ahead of her.”

After he’d left, M.C. lowered her gaze to the autopsy report.
A healthy young woman, her whole life ahead of her.

Where there was smoke, there was fire. If it walked like a duck and quacked like a duck, it was a duck. All those old clichés were clichés for a reason. They were almost always true.

Exactly why she had been certain Dickey Larson had been their guy. He’d been eliminated as a suspect when the ransom call had come while he’d been in custody. He could have an accomplice, but none of them thought so. Even her.

Unable to sit still, she jumped to her feet. Thoughts racing, she began to pace. Bello turns up dead. Bello worked for Erik. A day later Erik’s kidnapped.

A coincidence? Or smoke?

M.C.’s thoughts turned to the boyfriend. Bradley Rudd. He’d lied. About Bello never talking about her boss. Pretending he couldn’t remember the name of the place she worked. Those evasions and untruths hadn’t seemed important at the time.

She went still. They did now.

Why would he lie about something ostensibly so inconsequential? To distance himself from Kids in Crisis. From Erik. Of course.

The son of a bitch had been under their noses all along.

BRADLEY RUDD LIVED IN A small brick home on Latham. One story. Eight hundred square feet if she was being generous. There were a lot of houses like this one on the west side. She should know, she’d grown up not that far from here.

She rang the bell, then pounded. After several minutes of that, Rudd answered. He looked like someone had used his face as a punching bag. Two black eyes. Split lip. Swollen jaw.

“Detective Riggio,” she said. “You remember me, don’t you?”

“Go away.” Before he could slam on her, she had her gun out and in his face. “We either talk here or downtown. Your choice.”

“I don’t know what happened to Whitney--”

“But I think you do.”

“Go to hell.”

She was already there.
“What happened? Did she catch on? Realize you were pumping her for information? Is that why you killed her?”

“I’m calling the cops. This is harass--”

“Call’em, stud. You think anybody’s coming out in this shit? It’s just you, me and my friend Mr. Glock.”

Fear raced into his eyes. He stepped back from the door and she slipped inside. Suitcases, she saw. Packed and ready.

“Going somewhere?”

“Vacation.”

“Tell me about Erik Sundstrand.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her control slipped a fraction. “Game’s over, Rudd. You used Whitney to obtain information about Sundstrand. She either caught on to you or simply ceased being useful, so you killed her.”

“You’re crazy! I don’t know--” 

She totally lost it. She charged him, knocking him backward. In a flash she was on top of him, gun’s barrel pressed to his battered temple. “You tell me the fucking truth or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

He crumbled. Started shaking and crying. “I didn’t do it. I swear, I didn’t . . . I liked Whitney . . . it was his idea. I introduced her to him and when he found out she worked for Sundstrand--”

“Who?” She pressed the gun tighter. “Who is he?”

“My step-brother Chuck. He hates Sunndstrand. After Wet ‘n Wild closed down, he worked for SunCorp. Only a few months. Sundstrand fired him.”

Rudd was blubbering now. “All I had to do was try to get some information from her. Pretend to be super-interested in her job. Ask questions.”

“Why’d he kill her?”

“She caught me going through her purse. Looking for her SunCorp I.D.”

“Then what?”

“She flipped out. Broke up with me.”

“But you said you talked to her Sunday?”

“Chuck did. Not me. Arranged a meeting--”

“Why would she meet him at the river?”

“He’s my brother. He told her he wanted to talk to her about me.”

And she’d agreed. Women could be so stupid when it came to men.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “He told me he would patch things up between her and . . . I didn’t know,” he said again. “Until you and your partner came into Spanky’s. Then I confronted him.”

His voice cracked. “He laughed at me. Called me a pussy and told me if I said anything to anyone, he’d kill me.”