“You said these people are the same ones who tried to kill Lawrence,” Trimble said, his eyes narrowing.
“Yeah. I think that’s how they got to me, they found my address on a check in Lawrence’s apartment, maybe in his office or his wallet, I don’t know. All this time, I’ve been worried about some kid following my daughter around, not knowing there was someone else out there a whole lot more dangerous.”
Trimble got out of the car. “Are you going to be okay?”
I looked into his face. “I’m not okay now, I can tell you that much. These people, what they did to Lawrence, you really think they’re going to let me walk out of wherever they are, with Angie, alive?”
Trimble’s face didn’t move. He chose not to answer.
“Do you really think they’ve got cops on the inside?” I asked. “Because maybe, if there are some you trust, we should get more help?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Trimble said. “There’ve been rumors for a while that Lenny Indigo had people on his pad, in the force. But there’s never been anything hard, nothing concrete. But more than once, we get ready to make a move on him, and he knows before we get there. We’re lucky we finally nailed him a few months back, but his organization is still alive and kicking.”
“That’s Bullock? This Barbie Bullock guy?”
“Yeah. His real name’s Willy, or William. You’d think a nickname like Barbie would be hard to take, but if people are going to be calling you Willy, maybe it’s not that much worse. He’s dangerous, but not always a hundred percent competent. He’s been struggling lately to prove to Indigo that he’s got what it takes to run the organization. And there’s talk that he does have informants on the force. And I don’t think right now would be the best time to test that theory, not if you want to get your daughter back in one piece.”
I didn’t like his choice of words. They conjured up an image I had to push out of my mind.
“This Bullock, is he the kind of guy who’d kill Angie, even after I give him the car?”
“Look, let’s just take this a step at a time. You got a paper, pen, ready for when they call? Because they’re probably going to give you an address, where to make the trade.”
I patted my jacket, where I had my pen and the reporter’s notebook. Almost as if my tapping had activated it, my cell phone rang inside my coat. I grabbed for it nervously, nearly dropping it as I pulled it from my pocket. I was sweating, and a drop had rolled down into my right eye, stinging and causing me to blink.
“Okay,” said Trimble. I had my thumb poised over the button, ready to take the call. It had now rung twice. “Just take it easy. Listen carefully to what they have to say.” He eased his head up close to mine. “I’m gonna listen in. Okay, go.”
I pressed the button and put the phone to my ear, tilting it out a bit so Trimble could hear the person on the other end.
“Hello,” I said, breathlessly and a little too fast.
“Hey,” said Sarah. “Where the hell is everybody?”
I let out a breath. Trimble cocked his head to one side, looked at me, asking the question. I mouthed, “My wife.”
“What?” I said. “Are you home?”
Trimble had moved his head away. This was a call he didn’t need to hear in detail, but he had some input just the same. He was shaking his head, indicating that he didn’t want me to tell Sarah anything about what was going on.
The fact was, I didn’t want to tell her anything. First of all, the longer we spoke, the greater chance there was I’d miss the call from Bullock. And second, I might not be able to persuade Sarah not to call the police. She had every right to know what was going on, but right now, I felt the fewer people who knew what was happening, the better the odds we’d get Angie back alive.
“I just got home. The drive coming back didn’t seem all that long. Both the cars are gone, the only one here is Paul, and he says he doesn’t know where anyone is.”
“We’re out,” I said.
“Thanks very much, Captain Obvious. I figured that part out. Where are you? Where’s Angie?”
I looked at my watch. The call could be coming any moment now. There would probably be a call-waiting beep. But would I be able to get to it fast enough? Would I press the wrong button and lose both calls, the way I usually did when I attempted to switch from one caller to another?
“I’m with Detective Trimble,” I said. Maybe I could include some elements of truth in my story. “The one who’s trying to find out who tried to kill Lawrence. He agreed to meet me, answer a few questions. Nancy wants me to do some follow-up, you know?”
“He’s meeting you now? What is it, midnight?”
“You want to meet these people when they can see you, right?”
“And where’s Angie? I tried her cell but couldn’t raise her. You don’t suppose she’s gone out to see Trixie again, do you?”
And I was thinking that I would be thrilled, right about now, for Angie to be visiting with Trixie and being taught how to be the best goddamn dominatrix in the entire world. “Uh, she called me earlier, said her battery was dying, but she was going to a late movie with some friends.”
“I can’t stop thinking about why she might have gone to see Trixie. But I have a theory.”
The line beeped.
“Listen,” I said, hurriedly, “go to bed I won’t be home for a bit but if she’s not home by the time I get there I’ll wait up for her so don’t worry about it I really have to go.”
The line beeped again.
“Okay,” said Sarah, who evidently hadn’t detected the beep at her end. “But don’t you want to hear my theory about why-”
“Gotta go!” I said, hit the button, and said, “Yeah?”
Trimble intuited that I’d taken another call. He leaned in again, and I tipped the phone toward him.
“Fuck, I was just about to hang up,” said Bullock on the other end. “What, are you playing with yourself? This call not important enough to you?”
“I’m sorry. It was my wife. I practically had to hang up on her.”
“You tell her-” a short cough “-what’s going on?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Because we don’t want her calling the cops, do we?”
“No.” I swallowed. Trimble, in less than a whisper, said, “Tell them to put your daughter on.” I said, “Let me talk to Angie.”
“She’s fine, don’t worry about her.”
“If you want me to deliver this car,” I said, “you’ll put her on the line.”
Bullock sighed. “Jesus, fine, whatever.” I could hear him say to someone else, “Bring the girl over here, her dad wants to talk to her.” Then some phone fumbling.
Then: “Daad.” It didn’t sound like her. At least, it didn’t sound like any Angie I knew.
“Angie, is that you?” I was trying, without much success, to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Hi, Daddy… I’m so tired.”
I could tell it was her now, but her words came out slowly, dreamily. “Honey, what’s wrong? Have they given you something?”
“I’m just really… really tired.”
“Have they hurt you?”
“Hmmm? No… Can you come and take me home? I want to go to bed. And I’ve got an essay to do, that’s due tomorrow…”
“Honey, I’m coming to get you, I’m-”
“There,” said Bullock. “You satisfied? She’s fine.”
“What have you done to her? What the fuck is wrong with her?”
“Just relax. We just gave her a little something to calm her nerves, you know? Make her comfortable. Mellow her out. Sort of like Roofies.” The colloquial for the date rape drug. “But we’re honorable people. We wouldn’t do anything improper.” He coughed, cleared his throat. It sounded as though he was taking a sip of water. “So, you ready?”
“Yes.”
