Fatal Ambition

“Fatal Ambition is another edge-of-your-seat thriller by award-winning authors Don Farmer and Chris Curle, whose intimate knowledge of TV news is on full display.”

—Bert Rudman, News Director Sinclair Broadcast Group, Eugene OR “Fatal Ambition is a wild ride through the worlds of TV news and criminal wildlife trafficking. The twists and turns in this book make it hard to put down. I can’t wait for the film version of Fatal Ambition.”

—Dr. Terry Maple, Former President/CEO of Zoo Atlanta & Palm Beach Zoo, past President Assoc.

Zoos & Aquariums, author & university professor “Don Farmer has done it again in Fatal Ambition, delivering heaps of humor among the homicides. Bad deeds and revenge abound.”

—Gail Evans, Former CNN Executive Vice President, best-selling author “Don Farmer again weaves his insider’s knowledge of television news through an action-packed tale about bad men, feisty women and ambitions that turn deadly.”

—Neal Boortz, Best-selling author and former national talk show host

“Don Farmer has written a thoroughly engrossing. As a veteran newsman and TV anchor, Farmer captures the strong personalities of the newsroom and the ‘can’t look away’ drama of a riveting news story. Great characters, strong women, a vile villain and a plot that keeps you turning pages.”

—Rebecca Chase Williams, former ABC News Correspondent & former Mayor of Brookhaven GA “TV news veterans Don Farmer and Chris Curle are back with a thrilling story of greed, jealousy and murder. Police and reporters chase kidnappers and bear poachers as they follow the deadly mistakes of flawed men and vengeful women.”

—Clark Howard, Nationally syndicated radio talk show host “Former TV Newsman Don Farmer gives us an edgy thriller that has it all...heinous schemer, hard-driving news anchor, clever detective and insider details. You simply cannot put it down!”

—Karna Small Bodman, Bestselling author of Trust but Verify

Fatal Ambition

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books, Inc.

Terra Alta, WV

Fatal Ambition

by Don Farmer with Chris Curle copyright Š2020 Don Farmer All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page.

To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com Tel: 304-789-3001 Email: mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781946664785

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019946528

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A

Characters: Cassandra Page—Famed TV News star, a crime-busting reporter for Global News Service. Her zeal gets her in trouble. So can her love affair with an ambitious police detective.

Det. James (Jimmy) Hagan—Chief of Detectives, Atlanta PD. His relationship with Cassie Page creates dramatic and dangerous challenges for both.

Nikki Zachos—An in-your-face TV news anchorwoman, willing to do almost anything to become the most-watched news anchor in town. To many viewers she’s exciting. To a few, she’s a target.

Hunter Freeman—An insecure wannabe TV personality who yearns for the big time but can’t reach it. Desperate for attention, Hunter becomes a dupe and a victim.

DK Jack—Frustrated news director of Channel 4, the station that stars Nikki Z. He needs a victory to stay in the game. But Nikki Z’s life could be in the balance.

Dr. Sierra Tomé—A tall, gorgeous African-American thoracic surgeon with a nationwide reputation Rudy Decker—A slick man about town whose flashy style attracts women who say he’s to die for. And some do.

1

Brock L. Preston IV—A trust fund looser whose ego exceeds his resumé. He fails in life and blames women.

Angie Plant—A wallflower desperate to bloom who makes bad choices in men. When used, she doesn’t get depressed. She gets even.

RoAnn Gantry—TV producer who works with Nikki and becomes a virtual Nikki Z clone.

Agatha Wearmsley—A shrewd philanthropist who toyed with Rudy Decker at charity events. But when he dissed her in public it was game over.

Spring and Summer—Naïve, hippy-dippy sisters, twenty-ish do-gooders who learn real life lessons at gunpoint.

Margaret, “M”—Jimmy’s assistant at Atlanta PD, confidant, advisor, shoulder to lean on and cry on.

Bren Forrest—Owner, Global News Service, Cassie’s boss.

Gary and Earl Shanklin—Bear poachers and dealers in illegal bear parts.

Dr. Jacob Mills—Prominent, about-to-retire thoracic surgeon, mentor and friend to Dr. Sierra Tomé.

Dr. Quintavious Vine—Exotic animal veterinarian at Zoo Atlanta. Panting to be in show business.

2

1 ATLANTA - POTENZA STEAKHOUSE – 8:45PM A sleety rain smacked Nikki Z in the face as she ran from the restaurant door to a taxi idling nearby. The valet opened the right rear door of the cab and Nikki lunged into the seat, head down, shielding her face from the storm.

She slammed the door, shook her rain-damp hair like a shaggy dog and barked at the driver, “Channel 4. I’m late.”

“Are the streets freez…” The driver hit the gas pedal, sharply turned left and sped a hundred yards into a cul-de-sac on Hardman Court. He braked with a skid, spun around to face her and pointed a revolver so close to her forehead her eyes crossed.

A woman, wearing a black sweatshirt hoodie, opened the back door of the cab.

“Get out now, bitch!” She pointed to a dark Prius behind the cab, the doors open, interior lights on. Another woman stood there, waving and hissing.

“Here’s your ride to hell, right here. Into this car, fast. Any trouble and we’ll throw you in the trunk, head first.”

She grabbed Nikki and pushed hard, twisting her right arm and shoving her to the floor.

“Please, I can’t breathe,” Nikki said, her voice quivering. “Let me sit up. I…” “Get in and close the doors,” the driver said to the other woman, throwing the taxi keys into a nearby forsythia bush.

“And keep her face down. Don’t let her see where we’re going.”

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He grabbed the wheel of the Prius and hit the gas pedal.

The car skidded on the wet pavement, then caught traction and roared out of the cul-de-sac. Another left turn took the abductors and their hostage south on Piedmont Road. Nikki tried to flail her arms but the two women gripped her shoulders, pushing her down, like shoving bath towels into a dryer.

“What is this?” she screamed. “If you bastards aren’t from some reality TV show like Who’s Your Kidnapper, you’re in deep shit.”

“One more word and we’ll tape your mouth shut,” the driver warned. Brock Preston IV had never carried a gun in his jeans and a kidnap victim in his car, so he tried to hide his queasy feeling with bravado. The traffic was heavy, the rain relentless and rushing an abducted woman to a hostage hideout was a first for him.

A sharp pain ran up Nikki’s spine as the car bottomed out into two of Atlanta’s many formidable potholes. She tried to yell but only grunted softly.

Suddenly, another car rear-ended the Prius with a thump, backed off, sped up and hit the Prius again, harder. Brock’s seat belt stopped him from hitting the windshield even though none of the airbags opened. The women kidnappers screamed, Nicki yelled and Brock’s brain raced.

What the…who hit us, twice? On purpose? The car’s still going, so what do we do, pull over? Hell no. Can’t see through the rear window. The other car, did it stop? What if somebody has video?

Keep going. Do they know we have Nikki Z? Need to get off this busy street. Can’t stop now.

“Girls, everybody okay?” Brock asked.

“Guess so…Think so…No blood…Stop the car, Brock…”

The car hit Brock’s bumper again, swerved, and pulled up even with him on the left. Brock pulled out his pistol and pointed it out the window.

“Go away, morons, or I’ll shoot you,” he shouted. Four collegeage boys leaned out the windows of the car, laughing, hooting and waving orange and white banners, “GO STALLIONS” and “UP YOURS TECH.” 4

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

Brock screamed and fired his pistol twice in the air. The other driver backed off a few feet, swerved toward the sidewalk, hit a fireplug and careened back onto the street.

Not knowing the condition of the Prius and worried some important part might fall off, Brock was afraid to speed up. He turned left onto Monroe Drive, then left up an incline into a residential neighborhood on Hillpine Drive. The college boys’ car, crippled but still moving, didn’t follow. Nikki tried to pound on Brock’s neck but couldn’t reach him.

“Stay down and shut up, lady,” he hissed. “If you stay that way, maybe you won’t die tonight.”

Did he say that? Did he say maybe I won’t die tonight?

5

2 POTENZA STEAKHOUSE EARLIER THAT SAME EVENING “Which of your job titles is sexier, Jimmy?” Cassandra Page asked, flashing a smile at the man whose thigh rubbed against hers in the restaurant’s cozy back booth.

“Is it ‘Sir Chief of Detectives’ or ‘Your Highness Detectiveness’ or ‘Atlanta Super Cop’ or what?”

Shielded by the white tablecloth, Cassie squeezed his thigh, expectantly. But Detective James Hagan’s gaze was riveted on a tall, black-haired woman walking toward the exit of the glittery Italian steak and lobster house as if she were heading into battle.

“Isn’t that Nikki Zachos?” Jimmy asked.

“Of course it is,” Cassie said, sitting up taller in the booth as she watched the woman cross her field of vision, then pause to look at a flat screen TV above the bar.

“That fur coat is ridiculous, don’t you think, Cassie? It makes her look like King Henry the Eighth, as wide as she is tall, the hulk of Atlanta TV news.”

“She has a nice figure under that coat,” Cassie said, “more Henry the Sixth than Henry the Eighth. I hear the Sixth had king-size, six-pack abs. “ “I hear Nikki Z could kick both kings’ butts in a fair fight,” Jimmy said.

“She sure stands out in a crowd,” Cassie agreed.

Nikki Z didn’t notice Cassie and Jimmy as she slowed to watch a recording of herself on the TV, telling viewers the bad 6

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

weather may, or may not, be mere foreplay to the bear of a storm threatening Atlanta.

“Did you see that, Jimmy, how Nikki attacked that door on her way out? It’s like she took the door’s pre-set speed as a personal insult.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, distractedly looking at a blonde woman on her phone, still sitting at the table Nikki Z just left. She said a few words, smiled and quickly put the phone into a small purse.

“Recognize her?”

“No. She looks familiar but, as we all know, Atlanta’s full of beauties, right Jimmy? What do you say we brave the rain, head home and I’ll be your southern belle for a spell?”

“And, if all goes well, Scarlett, can we watch the late news and see whether Nikki Z wears her fur on the air? You know, as a poke in the eye to the anti-fur folks.”

“Why not?” Cassie asked. “She wears it everywhere else and loves the hate it evokes.”

“Looks expensive,” Jimmy said. “What kind of fur is it, woolly mammoth? Dinosaur down?”

“Don’t know,” Cassie giggled. “When it comes to fur or hair, I can’t tell a mink from a moose. Let’s go home, Mr. Chief of Detectives, and find a way to get warm without a mink or a moose in the house.”

7

3 ATLANTA – CHANNEL NEWSROOM – 7:15 PM Nikki Z did not want to go out and get wet and she didn’t want to listen to a TV news consultant babble on for an hour, either, but she had to do both to get the evening over with. She grabbed her sable coat, mumbled a “see ya later” to the dozen staffers in the Channel 4 newsroom and walked out.

“What’s got her panties in a twist?” asked a junior writer.

Nobody bothered to answer except the TV station’s weatherman, Eli the Weather Guy. “Nikki thinks she knows how to do TV news better than the consultants the station hires to tell us on-air people how to do it.”

“So why is Nikki going to dinner with the consultant?” asked the junior writer.

“The station manager decrees it. I had lunch with the same consultant yesterday. Name’s Hunter Freeman. Pretty girl. Worse ways to spend an hour than lunch with her. Nikki probably hates her, though.”

Nikki’s taxi idled at the back door of the station, its windows fogged over, the exhaust pipe belching.

Nikki pulled her fur coat closer, hoping to save her senses from the chilly rain and odor inside the stuffy cab.

Smells like my school coatroom on a soggy day back in Illinois, essence of damp corduroy.

For a moment, she watched the windshield wipers swiveling while she recalled her marching orders from the station manager, Otis Young.

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Don Farmer with Chris Curle

“Nikki, you must be nice to Hunter Freeman. Listen to her.

She can help you.”

Many TV stations paid healthy fees to consultants such as Hunter. Their job was to visit with TV station clients several times a year, to meet with the on-air anchors and reporters and give them helpful hints.

The more talented performers usually got at least a corny pep talk, an ego boost and a reminder to ramp up the energy while reading the news to keep viewers awake and away from the TV remote.

But why tonight? This storm shows signs of becoming a no-show.

Still, I should be in the newsroom leading our coverage, scaring viewers into hoarding bread and milk. I should not have to have a bullshit dinner with a bullshit consultant. But that bean counter of a station manager said I must because I cancelled Hunter twice recently.

Inside the restaurant, a tuxedoed greeter helped Nikki out of her fur coat and rearranged it over her shoulders.

“Welcome back to Potenza, Miss Zachos, your table is ready and I think…”

“Nikki, Nikki, over here,” a louder voice interrupted. Hunter waved as she walked from the lobby bar, a Cosmo in her right hand.

“Hi, Hunter, give me a minute,” Nikki replied with a frosty face. She turned to the handsome guy in a black tie and took his hand in both of hers.

“Thank you, Adamo, as always,” she said, in a warmer tone than the one she had aimed at the consultant.

Tables at Potenza were always ready for local TV personalities.

The maître d’ ushered Nikki and Hunter past a clump of people who were waiting before she arrived. Some of them were better dressed than Nikki and one woman was better looking. But those people weren’t on TV every night and that’s the way it was. Nikki and Hunter stood apart because they didn’t like each other. Their personalities and looks were miles apart.

Nikki’s thick, black hair was a shimmering setting for her face, framing her black eyes and Mediterranean complexion.

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At five-ten, her decisive stride made her always seem late for an appointment. In this restaurant, Nikki stood out even more. The oiled cherry-wood mirrors and art deco lighting gave Potenza a glow that flattered most of its patrons, but Nikki’s face and figure didn’t need the help. Many of Potenza’s clientele wanted to see the celebrities, mostly TV personalities, sports stars and a few publicity-starved politicians.

This was a see-and-be-seen hot spot. The celebrity diners and their gussied-up hangers-on were the décor. Patrons would go home and tell everybody Nikki Z has been there. They noticed Hunter, too. Her full blonde hair cascaded over the neck of her leather jacket and halfway down her back. She was a beauty in her own right. But, when Nikki, the alpha-female, was in the room, Hunter’s spotlight faded, and she didn’t like the chill.

The waiter nodded to Nikki and she nodded back. He went to the clients’ wine locker room, removed a bottle of Silver Oak, covered it with a white napkin, grabbed two glasses and carried them to Nikki’s table.

“May I pour?” he asked with a slight smile, still covering the bottle with the napkin. He filled each glass. “Silver Oak Alexander Valley Cab, 09, yes?”

Nikki sniffed, swirled, tasted, nodded and the waiter retreated.

Nikki liked Silver Oak wines, but Potenza usually stocked only Italian wine. Nikki made a deal: Big tips for space in the private wine room for her beloved Silver Oak. “There, I feel a little better now. Wine, Hunter?”

“I’ll finish my Cosmo first, thanks.”

After they ordered dinner and struggled through excruciating small talk, the food arrived. Nikki attacked her grilled filet mignon, medium, with baby vegetables in marinara sauce. Then she attacked Hunter.

“If you have any advice for me or maybe nothing but lavish praise for my work, let’s hear it.”

“Nikki, I love that sincerity you show on the news, you know?

I mean that look says, ‘Hey, I care.’’’

“It’s not a look, Hunter, it’s a heartfelt outpouring of my sincere caring. I mean, whether it’s potholes or lost pussycats, I 10

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

care. Besides, if you can fake sincerity you have it made. Wonder who said that?”

“I hear you, I do,” Hunter responded. “But there’s one more thing. That coat. Mink, right?”

“It’s sable, Hunter, Siberian sable. And another thing, I know all about the political incorrectness of my fur. We’ve been through this. Get off it. I’m wearing that coat and if people don’t like it, tough.”

“Yeah, I know, but the station manager wanted me to ask you to be a little more sensitive. Please remember, I’m only the messenger here.”

Nikki devoured the steak, ignoring the lonely baby veggies on her plate and ignoring Hunter.

Some messenger. She couldn’t do this big league TV anchor gig herself and now she gets paid to tell people already doing it how to do it.

Hunter had worked hard, trying to make it in TV, with trial-and-error stints in several small and medium-sized cities: Paducah, Green Bay, and Butte. She eventually made it to Naples-Fort Myers, a fast-growing metro area in Southwest Florida. But her alluring looks weren’t enough to take her to high paying anchor jobs in bigger markets. She enjoyed living in Naples, but the joke was TV stations there paid their on-air people in sunshine, not dollars. Hunter confirmed her suspicions and made more money pushing Avon products in her spare time than in the minor leagues of TV news. On the bright side, her brush with cosmetic greatness as an Avon lady gave her the idea of selling advice on hair, makeup and fashion to TV types. She soon learned TV managers loved to hire consultants.

Nikki tuned out Hunter for about twenty minutes. Then she shrugged and signaled a quick “Check, please,” to the waiter.

“I’ll get it, of course,” said Hunter. “I’m not quite ready to leave yet. I’ll have another drink and then catch a cab to my hotel.

Thanks for your time.”

“Yeah, sure thing. Thanks for dinner,” Nikki said brusquely.

She walked away, a fixed smile on her face.

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Hunter reached into a small purse at her side and retrieved a burner cell phone.

“Spring speaking. How can we help you save the planet today?”

“She’ll be out the door in a few seconds,” Hunter said.

She put away the phone and glanced around the room, unable to suppress a slight grin.

That felt good, really good. And the booze is better now too, especially the Cosmo. How’s that for Breaking News, Nikki?

12

4 ATLANTA - CHANNEL 4 NEWSROOM - 9:30pm The producer of Channel 4’s eleven o’clock news looked at his Apple watch and winced. Warren Pfister wasn’t sure which of his immediate problems to deal with first.

The weather could get worse. Or not. It could be the top local story for a day or two or old news by morning. Either way, his resources to cover it were puny compared to the other Atlanta TV stations.

Channel 4 was dead last in the number of viewers tuned-in to the evening newscasts, not as bad as a year ago, but a lesser last was still last.

Pfister’s prime weapon in the world of TV ratings was news anchorwoman Nikki Zachos. The station’s news director, DK Jack, hired her more than a year ago. She was hot, an attentiongetting, polarizing personality whose job was to push, pull, prod or poke this lagging news operation from worst to first in a hurry.

“Where the hell’s Nikki?” the producer said to the room.

“She’s seldom this late.”

The nine other people in the newsroom knew he was worried, anxious, upset, which was rare for Pfister. Angst usually was his emotional limit. For a TV newsman he was taciturn, with little bombast and no bad behavior on his permanent record. His cell phone was Mr. Clean clean. The sexiest game on it was Kandy Krunch, a slightly more adult version of that other game.

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With a storm brewing and a star anchor AWOL, whereabouts unknown, Pfister spoke up, “Somebody call Nikki and find out how fast she can get here.”

“I already did that,” a twenty-something male reporter replied. “I left her a text, a tweet, a poke on Facebook and a voice mail message.”

“Call the consultant she was with,” Pfister said. “Hunter’s her name.”

“Anybody have her cell number?”

“No, but I sure would like to,” said a video editor sitting at a console looking for highlights of an NBA game. “Nikki Z left here shortly after seven, griping about having to meet with her.”

“Yeah, she was snorting around about that this afternoon,” Pfister said. “I’ll ask DK to try to reach the consultant.”

“Should we maybe call the cops to report Nikki Z missing?” asked a young reporter.”

“You do and the boss will have you covering autopsies at the morgue,” Pfister answered. *** As the rain remained steady, the traffic slowed.

After she heard the gunshots, Nikki stopped ranting. She couldn’t see and, crammed on the floor of the back seat of the car, could barely move her arms and legs.

The guy is shooting at somebody. Are they going to shoot me next? Think. What could they want with me? Money? Some crazy TV viewer who wants to rape me? What about these two women sitting on me? A cult? Torture?

The driver turned on the car radio as he headed south on Peachtree Road. “…And that’s traffic and weather together here on Sonic 105.6. Stay with us for our coverage of this rainy evening in otherwise Hotlanta.”

The driver snapped off the radio and tapped the brakes, testing for traction. He gestured to the women in the back seat.

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Don Farmer with Chris Curle

“Phone the house, tell ’em we’re twenty minutes away and keep the TV on Channel 4. If there’s anything on about this, let me know.”

Nikki stopped squirming and tried to listen to her captors, to the road noise, anything to help figure out her location. The two women called each other by seasons of the year.

Good grief, I’m a prisoner of Spring and Summer. The females have southern prep school accents, but they do that annoying, uptalk thing. And the driver. He fires his gun but, when he talks tough, he sounds more like Rocky the Squirrel than Rocky Balboa.

Nikki Z’s rude ride continued, heading generally south by her reckoning, the wipers competing with the rain splatting on the slick windshield.

At that time, Cassandra Page and Chief of Detectives James Hagan were leaving Potenza restaurant in his unmarked police sedan, easing southeast on Piedmont Road toward their condo near Piedmont Park. Jimmy’s cell phone chirped. *** DK Jack was at home, but he might as well have been back at the TV station. Since dinner, he’d already taken three routine phone calls from the newsroom.

As news director, DK was a hands-on boss to his employees at Channel 4. The bare bones nature of the operation extended up as well as down the pecking order.

He knew it when he took the job of pulling the news department out of the ratings dustbin. DK had done it in a medium-sized TV market two years earlier by hiring a onetime swindler, an ex-con with an oily voice, as the channel’s top newsman.

DK paid his rising star enough to keep him honest and touted him as the champion of the little guy. His unofficial slogan was, “Ex-crooks are people too.”

When ratings soared, stations in big cities came calling and DK signed with Channel 4. His plan was to hire a female anchor who may not have a criminal record, but could polarize the 15

Fatal Ambition

viewers. Some would hate her and others would love her, but everybody would watch her, which would mean ratings, eyeballs on the product.

A Twitter-load of tweets and a boatload of Facebook friends would follow. DK figured within a year or two, half the people in Georgia would be tuning in, downloading or streaming to find out what THAT anchorwoman said this time about the latest thing.

DK was giddy imagining what wisdom or wisecrack from his superwoman anchor would be even bigger on YouTube than Taylor Swift’s newest album, Magna Carta My Way. Maybe if DK could get a touch of celebrity for Channel 4, he could get some respect in the TV business, where news directors changed jobs more often than their underwear. Enter Nikki Zachos. Nikki Z. She was gaining traction, picking up more viewers every week. Nasty weather, Stormoblivion, could be a leap forward or a flameout. DK’s dreams of becoming number one in Atlanta were interrupted by another call from the TV station.

“Hey, boss, sorry to bother you again, but do you have a phone number for Hunter Freeman, the consultant who was meeting with Nikki tonight? No, no big deal, but Nikki’s not back from dinner yet, doesn’t answer her phone, so we thought we might reach her through the Freeman lady. Nikki’s usually not this late getting back. We need her for the next live promo pretty soon. Sure, thanks, DK.” *** DK’s call to Hunter Freeman’s number went straight to voice mail. He left a “Call me when you get this” message. Next DK phoned his boss, the station manager Otis Young. Again, voice mail.

“Otis, DK here. Just a courtesy call to say Nikki Z is way late getting back to the station after dinner. I’ll keep you posted.”

DK’s next call, to Detective Hagan, rang in Jimmy’s pocket as Cassie was unlocking the front door of their second floor condo.

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Don Farmer with Chris Curle

Since Jimmy was named chief of detectives, he tried to limit the people who knew the number. He never was sure how to answer it, what to call himself. Several times he and Cassie enjoyed some playful slap and tickle while kicking around how a chief of detectives should answer his phone.

“What do you think, Copperhead?” she asked, while she uncorked a bottle of Burrowing Owl Cabernet and joined Jimmy around the small fireplace in the living room.

“How about this?” Jimmy asked, deepening his voice to the opposite of falsetto. “Chief of Detectives James Hagan here, ready to serve and protect the citizens of this great city.”

Cassie frowned and laughed simultaneously then said with a whisper, “Oooo, that’s great, Superman, but apparently it’s time for your meds now.”

The ringing phone stopped, but resumed a moment later.

“Detective Hagan here,” he said in a flat, almost wary voice, hoping for a wrong number.

“I’m about to open a vein, Detective,” DK said. “No, not really, but I am worried. Nikki Z isn’t back to the studio yet and that’s not like her. I need your help.”

He talked fast, explaining how the news department couldn’t reach Nikki since she left for a dinner meeting in bad weather and in a bad mood.

“You know how polarizing Nikki Z can be, Detective. People either love her or hate her. Lately Nikki Z lovers are increasing but the haters are making noise and a few threats.”

Jimmy interrupted. “DK, I saw Miss Zachos at Potenza as she was leaving the restaurant. She seemed ticked off about something and was in a hurry. But even in this rain, she should have been back at work by now.”

“Detective that is more than anybody here knows. I need a helluva favor. Could you put some people on to try to find her?

Sort of on the QT, I mean?”

I don’t know…” Jimmy began.

“Sorry, Jimmy, but this feels serious. Of course we can explain away her absence on the eleven o’clock news. The other anchor simply says Nikki has the night off, you know. It’s not that. But 17

Fatal Ambition

what if she’s sick or hurt or worse? And you know the other stations will go nuts with it if…you can imagine.”

“All right, DK, I’ll keep it to myself for now. Maybe she took a cab from the restaurant, or used her own car, or slid off an icy road. We’ll check it out.”

DK gave Jimmy Nikki’s numbers, home, cell and the same for Hunter Freeman, the consultant.

“Give me the private numbers for the newsroom, too,” Jimmy requested.

DK paused a second, then, “Okay, but I’d rather you talk to me only for now. Nobody else at the station needs to know she’s missing until we know she really is. You understand, loose lips sink ships and all that.”

Jimmy ignored DK’s garbled reference to the famous World War II slogan. “What about close friends, relatives, anybody you know who’s likely to know her whereabouts? Does she have a boyfriend or an angry ex?”

“Man, I don’t know,” DK said, nibbling at a minor hangnail.

“Guys ask her out now and then, of course. They think it’s cool to be seen with a babe from TV, no doubt. But Nikki is real private about that. A few local gossip bloggers sometimes mention her with a date. Thing is, Jimmy, Nikki dominates her environment.

She tends to fill up a room, I guess you’d say. Any guy with her tends to go grey with the rest of the backdrop when she’s on the scene.”

“One other thing,” Jimmy asked, glancing at the time display on his phone. “Has she ever done this before, not show up for work, I mean?”

“Not to my knowledge. I’ll ask the producers, although a few of the staffers probably wouldn’t mind having a breather from her now and then.”

18

5 ATLANTA – NEAR ZOO ATLANTA Nikki was trying to glean a sense of where she was being taken since the fake cab driver shoved a .38 in her face. Her fear factor spiked as her captors’ car slowed and made a sharp left.

The sound of tires on gravel replaced the smoother whoosh of wet blacktop.

“Spring, use the garage door opener,” the driver said. The car stopped and the driver got out. The two women put a cloth bag over Nikki’s head and helped her out of the car. She stood, but somewhat stooped.

The driver pulled Nikki forward, stumbling and slipping on the gravel that led to a porch at the rear of a one-story frame house.

“Open the door, Angie,” the male kidnapper commanded in a loud whisper. A lithe woman, wearing jeans, a black microfiber jacket and a ponytail, propped open the door, glanced left and right, then stepped aside.

“Take her in there, Brock, third room on the left,” Angie said.

From the dreary kitchen, with one light on in a dusty ceiling fixture, they led Nikki through a room the size of a breakfast nook into a small bedroom. When her shins struck a heavy metal frame about knee-high, one of the women pushed her down until she plopped onto a rollaway bed.

“Miss Nikki, if you cooperate, we will keep you safe here. But, oh dear, if you don’t…”

“Get away from me, you wackos, I hate…”

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Nikki was trying to scream at her captors, but one of the women jammed a hand under the bag and clamped it over Nikki’s mouth.

“Listen, bitch, give us your word you won’t talk or yell or scream,” Brock said. “Is that clear?”

Give him my word? Seriously? Who is this Boy Scout?

Nikki nodded.

“You better not,” said the man, waving the revolver in front of her face, his histrionics wasted by the bag still covering Nikki’s head. “I have this gun, you know.”

No, he’s not a Boy Scout. He sounds like Barney Fife, but acts like The Joker.

“I think you’ve convinced her you’re a bad guy, Brock,” Angie said, “despite your occasional Ivy League lapses. I’ll turn down the lights in the room and we can take the bag off her head.”

Nikki blinked as she focused on the room. The first image that cleared was the gun. Brock shoved it barrel first into the right front pocket of his four hundred dollar jeans, thighs pre-faded.

If only I could reach that revolver I’d put him into raging rehab for life.

“It’s up to you whether you die or live,” Brock said, “It’s live or die, you moron, not die or live. Am I being punked by some community college acting class?”

“I have no preference about your fate,” Brock said with a snarky tone. “For us, it will be a win-win either way.”

“What do you think this’ll get you, Brock is it?” Nikki asked.

Before Brock could answer, Nikki turned to face the three women who were watching her. Angie stood still, arms crossed, chin out. The younger ones, mid-twenties, Spring and Summer, were quiet. Summer was alert, Spring was trying to hold back tears. They watched Nikki as though she were an exotic zoo animal behind bars.

“Look, Miss Nikki,” Summer said, in a voice with a touch of authority, “you must keep quiet if you want to survive this. I don’t mean to be rude, but there are more important issues on this planet than your comfort.”

Nikki adopted an almost mocking tone, but soft, condescending.

20

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

“Ladies, ladies, ladies. If you cretins hurt me, my TV station will hunt you down like dogs, kill you and feed you to your pets, if you haven’t eaten them yourselves by then.”

Brock, his face florid, appeared close to swallowing his tongue, his non-gun hand slightly shaking. He stepped toward Nikki, then reconsidered.

“Bitch,” he said, unenthusiastically, and headed toward the furniture-challenged living room at the front of the house. Angie followed him.

“How long do we have to put up with this witch, Angie?”

It wasn’t really a question. He and the women kidnappers had agreed to the plan in great detail. The web site they created could be turned on at the right time: www.NoMoreFurOrNoMoreNikki. com. The timetable for the project was flexible, reflecting the sensitivities of the kidnappers.

“I think we should insist America ban daylight saving time,” Spring had said during one planning session. “Make that part of the ransom.”

“Whatever for?” Brock asked with an impatient sniff.

“It’s a known fact that cows and other animals hate daylight time. It puts them off their feeding time and can spoil their milk.”

“Spring, I think we should stick with our original manifesto.

Keep in mind it already guarantees that no members of the animal kingdom will be hurt as a result of our actions regarding Nikki Zachos.”

“Try to relax, Spring. You, too, Brock,” Angie said. “It won’t be long now.”

“Can we at least pry Nikki out of that damned fur coat?”

Brock asked. “I’m sick of looking at it. And is there any chance of finding a decent Merlot in this dreadful house?”

The girls struggled for several minutes to free the fur coat as Nikki tried to keep it on. They left her lying on her right side, duct tape binding her ankle to the railing of the bed.

“Hey, I know,” Brock said, loud enough for Nikki to hear.

“Let’s see whether the high and mighty Miss Nikki Z is on TV live right now, shall we? That’d be something to see.”

“Can they do that?” asked Spring. “Don’t they use some eye in the sky or whatever it’s called?”

21

Fatal Ambition

Brock relaxed. Teasing the sisters was great sport and in his opinion required little effort.

“Why yes, Spring, love, they do,” Brock said. “You may want to glitter up a bit if the camera zooms in for a close-up.”

“Oh, we look a mess…”

“Sweetie, Brock is kidding.” Angie said. “We won’t be on TV, at least not tonight.” She gave Brock a scolding look, then raised the volume on the TV. “Coming up at eleven, Channel 4’s up-to-the-minute coverage of our top story, Stormoblivion.”

A Channel 4 reporter in an Arctic-grade parka appeared on screen, in the rain, apparently standing near an expressway with two-way traffic creeping along.

“And, as you can see, the white lights are the headlights and the red lights are the tail lights,” he said, finishing his twenty second report.

“All about Stormoblivion here on Channel 4.”

Brock took the glass of wine Angie handed to him and downed almost half of it.

“Oh no, it’s Stormoblivion and we’re all going to die,” he said, mocking the overheated promo for the weather coverage promised on the news at eleven. “Maybe not all of us, Your Majesty. That’s you, Nikki. Maybe not all of us will die, not quite all.”

He winked at Angie and whispered, “Am I scary enough, Angie? How am I doing as a gangster?”

“Not bad, Brock, not bad. But you don’t have to act. You really are evil. One thing, though. I doubt Al Capone wore penny loafers under his galoshes. He probably never wore galoshes either.”

“What are galoshes?” Spring asked.

Nikki heard the laughter in the living room but stayed quiet. Until then, Nikki had mentally shrugged off Brock as an aging frat boy. Now she wasn’t sure how much of his role in her abduction was farce and how much was real.

She shivered on the bed and it wasn’t because they stole her sable.

22

6 MIDTOWN ATLANTA Cassie Page slipped into a white cotton terrycloth robe as she walked into the living room while Jimmy ended his phone conversation with Channel 4’s news director, Jack.

“Was that about Nikki Zachos?” Cassie asked. “What’s up?

She on some wine-soaked sabbatical or something?”

“What do you mean by that?” Jimmy said. “Is she a big drinker?”

“Not that I ever heard of,” Cassie said with a look of satisfaction.

“Then why do you think she might be on a wine-soaked sabbatical?”

“I don’t,” Cassie said with a laugh. “But I like to say ‘winesoaked sabbatical.’ Sounds like fun don’t you think? No? What’s the deal then?”

“DK is wetting himself with worry,” Jimmy said. “He says Nikki’s not back at the station way past her usual prep time for the eleven o’clock news. Nobody over there can find her.”

Cassie took an iPhone from the pocket of her robe and looked at the time.

“Hang on, Cass, you can’t report this yet, if ever, agreed?

“Sure, but what’s the big deal? Nikki’s probably late getting back because of the rain. And besides, Sherlock, I wasn’t calling the GNS news desk. Merely checking the time.”

“Sherlock? What’s that about? If I’m Sherlock you must be Lois Lane.

23

Fatal Ambition

“Truce,” Cassie said. “You have some phone calls to make.”

“And you don’t, at least not yet. Promise?”

“Promise.”

Jimmy phoned his ranking detective sergeant at home and gave him a list of people and places to contact, quickly and off the record.

In the bedroom, Cassie Googled several versions of Nikki’s name: Nikki Zachos, Nikki Z, The Nikkster and a couple more variations not known by most TV viewers. *** One of Nikki Zachos’ earliest exercises in bucking the system was the name Nikki. After a few months in kindergarten, she’d endured enough of Noreen, the name her parents gave her. By first grade at Twin Echos School in Collinsville, Illinois, she was correcting teachers and other children.

“My name is Nikki,” she would say, sometimes politely, more often with a sassy tinge. She was tougher on her mother, Darla.

“Noreen, don’t forget to brush your teeth. Noreen. Noreen, I’m talking to you.”

“Who are you talking to, Darla?” Nikki would say, refusing to answer her mom or any relative who persisted with the Noreenname-calling.

Through middle and high school, Nikki refused to use her legal, given name. Faculty fumed, family assumed she was nuts and playground peers were relentless.

High school cheerleaders and their in-crowd pals made the name Noreen a withering chant that often echoed through gyms, cafeterias and a few school assemblies.

“No-Reen, No-Reen, She’s a Mean Sex Machine.”

She laughed at the insulting chant. “Who is this Noreen of whom you speak?” was her standard response. Her disdain for the name others tried to impose on her was so ingrained she changed it officially to Nikki the first day she could legally do so.

She refused to answer questions about her name and was equally stingy about details of her life.

24

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

Cassie found Google information about Nikki, but most of it was terse, unadorned. Cassie’s notes from her search: NIKKI Z: Born July 25 1982, (Leo) raised Collinsville, IL, working class suburb of St. Louis MO. Collinsville claims world’s largest catsup bottle water tower.

Only child of Darla and Nikko Zachos, she a homemaker, he a baggage-handler at the St. Louis airport.

Hi.Sch: Collinsville H.S., grad. 1999.

College: U. of Mo St. Louis, grad. 2003.

Cassie made notes on where Nikki worked before Atlanta, but the data was sketchy. But in one Google entry, Cassie found a seven-year-old newspaper column wisecracking about Nikki’s penchant for annoying sponsors and fellow employees at a TV station in St. Louis. She had anchored the station’s six and ten o’clock newscasts there before getting the Atlanta job.

The writer in St. Louis referred to Nikki as cranky, stubborn and always at odds with her bosses. But the writer was flooded with emails and calls from viewers who loved her combative style of challenging any and all newsmakers she thought needed a takedown.

A few of the pithy, pro-Nikki comments: “If Nikki is in your face, you may want to consider the witness protection program.”

“She’s twice the man you are, jackass.”

“Your anti-Nikki column ought to be renamed, ‘The view from where the sun don’t shine.’”

Cassie laughed as she scribbled on her yellow legal pad, “pain in the ass but popular in a ‘she speaks for me’ sort of way.”

She put the iPad and her notes into a drawer on the bedside nightstand and walked back into the living room. Jimmy was on the phone again with the Channel 4 news director.

“DK, Jimmy Hagan here. Any word from the newsroom?”

Jimmy frowned as he listened to the news director talk faster and faster but with nothing to report.

25

Fatal Ambition

“Nothing from my end either,” Jimmy said. “I’m doing what I can, but we’d have a much better chance to find her if we could go public…”

DK interrupted. “Detective, it’s almost air time for our eleven o’clock news. Let us get through that first. Can we talk around eleven forty-five?”

“Yes, of course. Are you still at home or going in?”

“At home, but in touch of course. I left phone messages for the consultant and the station manager. I don’t want to chat with the night staff again until you help me figure out what to tell them. Thanks a million, Detective.”

Jimmy looked at his phone and shook his head.

“What now? Cassie asked.

“Don’t know. Let’s turn on the TV and find out.”

“You’re looking live at Atlanta’s Hartsfield Jackson International Airport, a sea of slush and rain right now. This is Channel 4 coverage of Stormoblivion, the freakish spring storm drenching North Georgia.”

The panorama view of the airport shrank to a corner of the screen, replaced by the concerned-looking face of the primary anchorman on the evening news programs.

“Good evening, I’m Jerome Hays. Nikki has the night off. We begin our Stormoblivion coverage with up-to-the-second live reports from our news team around town.”

DK exhaled, sipped his bourbon on the rocks and stared at the screen, but he was not listening to the reporters as they groped for fresh adjectives to describe the possible extent of the storm. Questions ran through his mind, mostly unanswered.

How long do we have before we have to acknowledge that Nikki is unaccounted for? Yes, unaccounted for, that’s a good way to put it. Not missing, not on some unexplained, phony assignment. No, that’s crap. Unaccounted for sounds like she vanished into the Bermuda Triangle.

DK refocused on the newscast and the storm coverage. Not embarrassing, but compared to the other TV stations in town, Channel 4 was outgunned, outmanned and, from the looks of it, outspent. And all the other stations’ anchors had showed up.

26

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

Nikki’s co-anchor, Jerome, was a capable, but this sort of event, the possibility of a big storm, required all hands. The fastmoving action needed anchors and reporters who could work mostly without scripts, ad-libbing live reports. Jerome was fine on Teleprompter, but not so much when he was required to wing it. DK could imagine many viewers, who were Nikki fans, changing channels when she didn’t appear on the air.

One of those channel flippers was Cassie Page, watching the newscast with Jimmy at their condo. They probably were among the least surprised viewers in Atlanta when they heard, “Good evening, I’m Jerome Hays. Nikki has the night off.”

Cassie immediately punched in Channel 3, where the storm was the big news, but without a hype-hampered Stormoblivion slogan to describe it.

“Your old pals at Channel 3 are kicking butt with their storm coverage,” Jimmy said, during the first commercial break.

“Let’s see whether GNS is on it, too,” Cassie said, aiming the remote at the screen. Up came the all-news network’s White House correspondent, talking from his post on the dry, fully lighted White House lawn and clearly not reporting on the weather in North Georgia. Cassie turned down the volume.

“Nights like this, such bad weather I mean, make me realize I’m glad not to be doing local news anymore,” Cassie said with a nod at the TV. She’d made the move from Channel 3 to the Atlanta-based Global News Service about a year earlier. For several years, she was a local star newshound, a popular TV personality who could sweet talk her way into the confidence of people in high places or scissor-kick scoundrels if necessary. Her biggest scoop was a series of related high-profile homicides in Atlanta. As a police detective, Jimmy was working the same murders that Cassie was investigating and reporting on Channel 3. They shared information, tips, clues, late night dinners and eventually a condo near Piedmont Park. Last year she earned awards for her journalism and Jimmy was promoted to chief of detectives.

Soon after, Bren Forrest, owner of Global News Service, offered Cassie a dream job.

27

Fatal Ambition

“You’ll have carte blanche to go almost anywhere to get good stories that make great television. I want reports and documentaries about what you do best - crime and corruption.

The bigger the crooks, the better.”

Cassie was stunned. “May I have a little time to think about this, Ms. Forrest?”

“Sure, but, if it’s a money thing, don’t worry. I will double your salary from Channel 3.”

“That’s generous, but I…” “Triple it. I’ll triple it. Let me know tomorrow if possible. Oh, one more thing. I’d like to hire your friend Detective Hagan, too.

As a special private investigator for GNS.” Cassie laughed aloud recalling that phone conversation of a more than a year ago.

“What’s funny, Cass, the weather guy on Channel 3 or…?”

Jimmy’s cell phone vibrated and he put it to his ear.

“Go,” he said, seeing the familiar number on the display.

28

7 ATLANTA - GRANT PARK NEIGHBORHOOD “Nikki has the night off,” Brock shouted toward the room where Nikki was duct-taped to the small metal bed. “Did you hear that, Miss Nikki? You have the night off. Woo hoo. Your pal Jerome is on live TV talking about rain with Eli The Weather Guy and it’s not about you, except to say you’re not there.”

“Why don’t they say something about her, Brock?” Spring asked. “It’s not nice to brush off their star’s absence.”

“She’s our star, too, right now,” Angie said. She gestured toward the TV with her half-empty wine glass.

“The TV people don’t know it yet. Which reminds me, where’s her fur coat?”

“We put it in the closet,” Summer said. “I’ll go.”

She strode into the living room wearing the coat, then bowed like an actor taking a curtain call.

“Feel this fur, Brock,” she said. “No wonder Nikki loves it.”

“Oh dear,” Brock said with pretend melancholia. “Too bad, so sad.”

Spring helped Summer out of the coat.

“It’s luxurious,” Spring said.

“Come on, Brock,” Summer said, irritated. “When do we issue our demands and make arrangements?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Brock said. “Probably tomorrow morning.

If this storm lingers, schools may not open and some people won’t go to work. And, since everybody watches TV when the weather sucks, tomorrow morning could be best. But, you know 29

Fatal Ambition

what? I can’t wait. I’m calling those news creeps this minute. It’ll give ’em something to lose sleep over. Short and sweet. Make ’em crazy. Girls, stay quiet. And Nikki,” Brock shouted toward the bedroom, “one word from you and you’ll lose a digit. Or worse.”

“Welcome to Channel 4 News. Our business hours are 8am to 7pm. But if this is a news emergency, please press 4-4-4 and one of our news professionals will be with you shortly. For all other matters, please leave a brief….”

Brock hit the 4 as instructed.

“Channel 4 News, Jason speaking.”

“Jason,” Brock said in a smart-alecky tone, “we have custody of your anchor woman, Nikki Z. She is safe, for now. Her future is up to you. We mean business. We will phone tomorrow morning.

Have your superior available. Sweet dreams.”

Brock closed the burner phone, handed it to Angie and said, “I did my job for tonight, now do yours. Hurry. Take this phone at least four or five blocks away, stomp it to pieces, then wipe off each piece and scatter them as far from each other as you can. It will be good practice for you.”

Angie could see Brock was pumped, full of himself. She feared it was not a good idea to challenge him about anything and Spring’s reaction didn’t help.

“Brock, gosh, you think of everything,” she gushed. “You’re a genius.”

“Well then, genius,” Angie snickered, “aren’t they going to demand to see Nikki, to talk to her? There’s a name for that on cop shows, true to life. No, life something. Wait. Proof of life. Yes, she will be her own proof of life.”

Summer brightened. “That’s good. We could email them a picture of her wearing the coat too. Make her snap the shot herself. It would be the selfie of the year, no doubt.”

“How about all of us geniuses get some sleep,” Angie said.

“What about Nikki?” Summer asked. “She’s miserable taped to that bed.”

“She’s right,” Spring said. “I think we should explain our plan to her, our motivation, our goal in all this, don’t you, Brock?”

30

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

“What’s the point, Spring? Do you think if we’re nice to her she’ll go along, lose the fur coat and join our movement? Get real. Tell her, Angie.”

“Why not give it a shot, Brock?” Angie asked. “If she’ll stay put, not scream and yell.”

Brock stood up and walked toward the bedroom. “All right, come on, let’s see if Miss Nasty can be a calm, reasonable person.

It shouldn’t take long to find out.”

Nikki flinched when Spring touched her forearm.

“It’s only us,” Spring said. “We want to talk, if you’ll be nice and promise to stay cool. Can you do that?”

Nikki nodded. Brock’s face was an inch or two from hers. His grin was fake, the contempt in Nikki’s eyes was not.

“I need water and I need to pee, you crazy bastards.”

“Shhh,” Spring said, her finger to her lips.

“Bring her two glasses from the kitchen if you can find some,” Brock told Spring.

“Two glasses? Why two?”

“One with water to drink and one to pee in.”

“But couldn’t she drink the water in one glass, then when it’s empty, pee in it?”

“Please, Spring, get the water,” Brock demanded.

Nikki struggled to control her temper and keep her voice down. “You,” she said, leaning toward Summer. “Is that your real name, Summer? And that other girl is called Spring?”

“Yes, these are our given names. Our parents loved nature and the seasons and…”

“The seasons?” Nikki interrupted. “The seasons?” It was Nikki at her most derisive. “Where’s Autumn? And what about Winter? And where’s Frankie Valli?”

“We’re the only kids in our family,” Summer responded. “But I get it.”

“Get what?” Spring asked.

Nikki ignored her and asked, “Are you twins, maybe?”

“No, Summer is oldest by eighteen months. She’s twentyfour.”

31

Fatal Ambition

“Older,” Nikki corrected. “Older, older by eighteen months.

Not oldest. Older. Old, older, oldest, like that.”

“No, there are only the two of us,” Spring said.

Nikki paused, steeling herself to not shriek, then looked at Summer, who produced a cup, one with water, nestled in an empty one.

“Apparently all they have are paper cups, plates, napkins and paper towels,” Summer said.

“And don’t forget to recycle,” Spring said.

“Listen you mental placebos,” Nikki said. “I’m going to try to pee in this recyclable cup now. The empty one. I’ve peed in worse ways and worse places but never with a quartet of morons in the audience. Look away or stay or bay at the moon if you like.”

Forty-five seconds later, Nikki said in the brittle tone of a biker babe, “Ready y’all? Recycle this.”

Brock was itching to do something. He moved closer to Nikki.

“Beddy-bye time for you, Miss Nasty, let’s…”

“No, I’ll be good, really,” Nikki said in a softer way, hoping to prolong the conversation. “Tell me about why we are gathered here this evening, dearly beloved.”

Angie spoke first. “We are a few among many forming a worldwide movement to save the planet and most of the creatures on it.”

Spring and Summer quickly glanced at each other, shoulders shrugging, as if to say, “Worldwide group? Seriously? Us four and who else?”

Angie ignored them and put her face closer to Nikki’s. “Our action plan includes you. It requires you.”

Spring jumped in, eyes wide open. “If you, like, play your role well, you will be a celebrity, a rock star, from the Arctic to the, uh, other Arctic.”

“But if you don’t,” Angie spoke over Spring, “there will be a place in hell for you with other humans who don’t care about all the other life forms on earth. And that includes cockroaches.”

“Oooh, I’m petrified,” Nikki said, “and that, for you two seasonal idiots, is sarcasm. Let me get this straight. If I join your 32

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

pathetic little clump of psychopaths, I will be an epic, intergalactic celebrity, adored by all creatures great and small, from penguins to polar bears, from protons to prime ministers. But if I refuse and tell you to go find a pond to play in with the other scum, then what?”

“The answer is not pretty, Miss Nasty,” Brock answered. “But we don’t have time for that now.”

Spring and the others clumsily maneuvered Nikki back on the bed and duct-taped her to it.

Brock stroked his chin in a fake pose of deep thought.

“Nikki Z, if you make loud noises we will drug you unconscious. The Z in Nikki Z will stand for zombie. So, go to sleep, Miss Sable Killer,” Brock said. He turned to leave the room.

“I have one more agenda item before I hit the sack.”

He made an exaggerated grin, hoping it resembled Hannibal Lecter.

“I am going to write the most important tweet in the history of Twitter and post it early tomorrow morning, about the time we make the second call to Nikki’s boss. It will put our beloved movement on the map. America, meet “PAP – “PEOPLE ARE THE PROBLEM.”

33

8 ATLANTA Hunter Freeman was in a good mood as she sat at the Potenza bar waiting for a cab she had ordered. It would be a while, since the rain was not letting up.

Her euphoria was fueled by the chance to do something unpleasant to Nikki Z. She was skeptical about what a simple phone call would accomplish, but Rudy assured her it was vital to a plan to humble Nikki and contribute to a good cause.

Hunter had finished the wine from dinner after Nikki left.

“A Cosmo, please, a double.”

Mario made the drink and a quick assessment of the woman.

His twenty-eight years of tending bars in high-end venues was the hands-on experience that made him a major asset to Potenza.

With a “Let’s-check-you-out” look at Hunter, Mario began his mental checklist.

Pretty, sexy, probably hot. No, definitely hot. A friend of Nikki, no, a business associate, more likely. Could be another media type, but no celebrity around Atlanta. Seemed to annoy Nikki, not necessarily a negative, but…

“I’m Hunter. What’s your name bartender?”

“I’m Mario, Miss; um, is Hunter your first name or your last name?”

“First, you know, like that actress? Hunter Tylo? The daytime drama star?”

“You mean soap operas?”

34

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

“Yes, she was on several, Days of Our Lives, Bold and the Beautiful, remember?”

“No, Miss Hunter, but with your looks, you could be a TV star, too. Are you, by chance?”

“Not on screen, not right now anyway,” Hunter said coyly.

She reached for the fresh drink Mario put on the bar and took a long sip.

“See, Mario, I don’t do TV but I teach the people who do how to do it.”

“Do you teach anybody I see on TV? Like the one they call the Money Honey?”

“Mario, all I can say is, if you’ve got the money, honey, I’ve got the time.”

One of two men in business suits, sitting down the bar from Hunter alternately checked out her and the basketball game on a TV. “Hi, blondie, what brings you out on this rainy night?” asked the grey suit, a little taller than the blue suit who was still watching the game on TV. Hunter ran her tongue lightly across her movie star teeth.

“I could ask you the same thing. Why aren’t you home and dry by now?”

He turned and faced Hunter. Alcohol was obviously in charge of his bloodstream but not sending much of it to his brain.

“Wanna drink?” Hunter asked.

“Sure, blondie. I’ll have what you’re having.” He slumped slightly on the bar, his elbow preventing a fall.

“A Cosmo for this gentleman, Mario, and another double for me,” she said, flashing her best Hunter Tylo soap opera dazzle.

“What’s a Cosmo, some girlie drink?” the grey suit asked.

“Depends how you make it. Anyway, enjoy it on me.”

“Why are you supplying me vif shpirits,” he slurred. “’Cause I’m happy. Won a big payback tonight. Drink up.

Yiama,” Hunter said, raising her Cosmo.

“Yiamas,” shouted the drunk. “What’s yiamas?”

“It’s Greek for ‘cheers’ or ‘to your health.’”

“How, I mean why, why do you know Greek?” His eyes were about to close as he clung to the bar.

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Fatal Ambition

“I’m teaching a Greek a lesson.”

Hunter was smiling and feeling no pain. Her mood morphed into pleasant relief when the cab driver arrived but turned sour again when the driver hinted several times during the short drive that he deserved a big tip for braving the weather.

What does he think he is, FEMA coming to my rescue? My usual fifteen percent tip for cabs and hotel bellmen is plenty.

Besides, I may never see this cabbie again.

In the hotel, she semi-stumbled toward her room on the fourth floor, waving her iPhone three times in the general direction of her door. The door remained locked. She stepped back, did a pirate’s swashbuckler move and swept the phone closer toward the door.

“Voila,” she said and charged into the room, the iPhonemake-believe sword slaying her invisible foes.

“Take that, bad guys,” she grinned triumphantly, tossed purse on the bed, and kicked off her rain-soaked shoes. The room felt overheated but she preferred it to the damp cold outdoors.

Hunter was elated. She had never before thought she would have the chance to put Nikki in her place, if that’s what this was.

Rudy said I’d be doing the right thing and also making Nikki uncomfortable. All good.

Hunter stumbled toward the dresser. She had left the TV on, tuned to Channel 4, when she left to meet Nikki for dinner.

Savvy frequent travelers often left the volume up, hoping to persuade would-be burglars to hit another room with no signs or sounds of life.

“Let’s check out Miss Nikki on her fab newscast,” Hunter said, talking to herself, the room, the universe. “Maybe she can make the big, bad storm go away. I know she could insult it to death. Whoopee.”

I must remember to ask Rudy why he asked me to make that phone call when Nikki left Potenza to go back for the eleven o’clock news. When he said all I needed to know was it would be a bad thing for Nikki, I should have demanded more info. Yesh, info, innnnfoh.

36

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

Hunter dialed the hotel phone on the side table and said, “A wake-me-up call, please. How does seven sound? Seven on the nose and that’s the way it goes. Nighty night.”

She lay back on the bed and tried to unzip the skirt of her wool business suit.

I wish somebody here would do this for me. Rudy oh Rudy, where are you when I need you, when my zhipper needs you? I mean my zipper, zee-eye-fif-fif-eee-are. Rudy Rudy loves my booty….

She fell asleep as the anchorman said, “…Stormoblivion, the early spring storm across North Georgia. Good evening, I’m Jerome Hays. Nikki has the night off…” *** DK grabbed a rain jacket with the Channel 4 logo on it and left for the TV station.

No point in staying home pacing around my den. Getting claustrophobic and jumping when the phone rings. No chance of getting some sleep anyway.

As he drove toward the station, his phone buzzed and bluetoothed.

“Sir, Jason here; just got a call routed to the newsroom. You need to hear this.”

“Go, Jace, max volume.”

Brock’s snotty voice drowned out the rainy street sounds.

“We have custody of your anchor woman, Nikki Z. She is safe, for now. Her future is up to you. We mean business. We will phone tomorrow morning. Have your superior available. Sweet dreams.”

DK phoned Jimmy Hagan and Otis Young. Both answered and headed immediately to the station.

Jimmy phoned Margaret, who then contacted police electronics experts needed to record any future calls related to Nikki’s disappearance. Margaret also persuaded her favorite cop hostage negotiator to forego a day off and join the case. She was renowned for her subtle, southern toughness. Most Atlanta 37

Fatal Ambition

policemen called her, out of earshot, “Captain Belle of the Steel Balls.”

In the newsroom, with Otis at his side, DK took charge.

“Anybody who leaks what I’m about to tell you before I say it’s okay will be terminated, clear?”

Warren Pfister, the producer of the late newscast, tried to ease the tension.

“When you say ‘terminate,’ you mean fired, right? Not terminated like The Terminator terminated?”

“Funny, Pfister. Please shut up. I mean, be quiet and listen.

Some of you have heard the phoned-in claim that Nikki is being held hostage. It’s brief and sounds amateurish but we have to treat it seriously. Listen to the voice, tone, accent, all that.”

The electronics tech played the message.

“Any ideas or questions?” DK asked.

“DK, viewers are calling with wisecracks about Nikki not being out there covering the bad weather.”

“Like what?” DK asked, hoping that’s what all the calls were, wisecracks.

“One female caller claimed Nikki was in hiding, afraid she’d get her fur coat ruined if she went outside.”

“Her what? Her coat?”

“Yeah, you know how she wears that bundle of dead sables around town all the time.”

“God is that all, blather about what she does with a coat? Any relevant caller comments?”

“Nah, her fans are curious and her detractors hope she eats a worm and dies.”

“Then,” DK said, “it’s mostly a normal ration of irrational reaction to our newscast, but least they’re watching. ” DK asked Jimmy Hagan for a police update.

“So far we’re coming up empty. She’s not been seen since she left the restaurant and jumped into a cab. No taxi records of the pickup at Potenza. Nobody home at her apartment. Looked normal, neat, clothes in closets, luggage there too, desk search produced nothing. Laptop off, closed.”

38

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

“We can expand the search at daylight, DK, but rain is slowing everything in town. She could have stepped in a pothole and disappeared.”

“Thanks for now, Detective,” DK said. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, let’s engage in some serious journalism here. Lives are at stake. Double check your sources and cash in favors if you can. We’re announcing that Nikki is officially missing. Good luck.”

Jimmy and DK went into an empty office off the newsroom.

“What now, Jimmy? We can’t tiptoe around it.”

“Look, we all know Nikki is controversial, has enemies and fans. That’s enough reason to go public. We also know she’s easily recognized. Spreading word she’s missing could produce a good lead.”

Jimmy knew enough from living with Cassie that many TV executives fear their careers may soar or stumble on their next ratings report, so he chose his words carefully.

“Think of the impact Nikki’s disappearance will have on the community, DK. You could set a new standard for responsible journalism, showing how TV news and law enforcement can work together. The wide exposure of this situation will help raise the chances of finding her alive. Media outlets will plaster her likeness on everything from iPhones to drones. If she’s alive and above ground, we’ll find her.”

DK paused, thinking about one thing Jimmy said, exposure.

Translation: publicity. If we announced Nikki was missing, we’d have every eyeball in town on our programs, news updates, specials, everything. We’d have a head start on all breaking new developments. We could ride this into the viewership ratings history books. Oh, and save Nikki.

“Detective, you are a wise man. I need to run this by Otis as we go along. Let’s go, all out, quickly. Live TV. Our channel, exclusively at first. Then the others will swarm all over it.”

“Our electronics are in place at your office,” Jimmy agreed.

“DK, the truth is, we need to be prepared for anything. Let’s say Nikki really is being held for ransom. If the kidnappers contact you or one of your reporters or anchors to make demands, our 39

Fatal Ambition

guys can tell you what to say. For example, if someone claims to have Nikki hostage, you have to insist they prove it and that she’s alive.”

“Kidnapping? Why Nikki? Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not, but it makes sense. Our searches aren’t turning up anything else. Are you down with this?”

“Yes, Jimmy, yes, all in.”

“And Otis Young?”

“Know what he told me, Jimmy?” Otis said, “Who knows where she is. Maybe she ran away with the circus. Maybe she’s snorkeling in the fountain outside city hall. She’s a costly free spirit but she’s bringing in big audiences and higher ratings. End of discussion.’”

“But, there is one caveat,” Jimmy replied. “If this is some twisted hoax by your station or Nikki herself, a publicity stunt, the official soccer ball at the next police and fire department match will be your head.”

40

9 ATLANTA Spring and Summer slipped out of their queen bed and padded into the smaller bedroom where Nikki was fettered.

Tendrils of early daylight penetrated the window curtains as Nikki was struggling to move around on the bed. The throbbing pain muffled her persistent effort to talk or even groan during a restless, mostly sleepless, night.

“Good morning, a very early morning,” Spring whispered softly. Summer yawned. Nikki glared at the two sisters.

“Girls, listen to me, please. I will be nice for a while, under the following conditions. First, I need to pee in the bathroom.

Second, no; I must pee first and then we’ll finish the list. Please.”

The sisters exchanged knowing glances. Twelve minutes later, Nikki was back in bed, her ankle again taped to the metal frame.

“Number two on my list, coffee. Number three, bring your boss man in here, Brick or Broke or whatever the hell his name is. That pompous ass has some explaining to do. And then there are you two. Why don’t you save what’s left of your sorry lives and call the police to come get me? If you do that now, I’ll tell them you helped me and they’ll probably let you off with only a reprimand.”

Brock walked into the room right then. “Who’s getting only a reprimand and for what?”

“Nikki says we will if we let her go right now,” Spring answered. “Is that possible, Brock?”

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Fatal Ambition

“HAY-UP, HAY-UP.” The plaintive, pointy sound whistled through the house in a whoosh. “HAY-UP, HA-YUP.” “What is that awful noise?” Brock said aloud. “Sounds like ‘Help, Help.’ Is it some sick animal?”

Spring peeked out the window, but she couldn’t see much except some standing water from the overnight rain. “It sounds like a bird call to me,” Summer said. “Maybe a peacock. We’re close to Zoo Atlanta, you know, and those birds can be quite noisy.”

“Watch your mouth, Summer,” Brock said with a squint of disapproval. “Why don’t we give the cops our street address here?

Besides, how do you know what kind of bird makes a racket like that?”

“For your information, Brock, I’ve worked at the zoo, part time, for more than two years,” Summer replied.

“I think it’s great, Summer,” Nikki snarled sarcastically, “you volunteering, I mean. What about you, Spring; what’s your dogooder mission in life?”

“It’s substantial, Miss Nikki. I work at the Humane Society several days a week. I donate to PETA too. And you, Nikki?

Do you do anything charitable to make up a little for that ugly sable coat, that walking billboard for human hatred of helpless animals?”

Nikki shook her head and, as though weighing pros and cons, said “I think I may donate to some ‘Take a Peacock to Lunch’ bunch because I love those birds making noise. Sounds to me like a call for help to get me out of this nightmare,” she said with a menacing grin. “What are you going to do about it, Brock-man?

Are you going to shoot the noisy birds at the zoo, too?”

Rattled, Brock leaned in closer to Nikki on the bed.

“One thing we’re not going to do is make a call to your scaredy-cat bosses with our demands when there’s a stupid bird screaming for help in the background. Somebody might make the zoo connection and figure out we’re in that neighborhood.

We can wait. Anyway, as yet this morning none of the other TV stations has mentioned a word about you being off the air. What do you think about that, Miss Nikki?”

42

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

“Brick, I’m not worried about what Channel 4 will do about my absence. But they’ll deal with it. Hell, our night watchman, sorry, security officer, is ten times smarter than you and your three backup singers here.”

“See, Nikki, may I call you Nikki?” Brock asked smugly. “We have a plan. It’s bigger than us, bigger than you, too, but you’ll be part of it. I’ll make the call soon. Count on it.”

“How about now?”

Angie entered from the kitchen where she had been making breakfast with food stocked in the pantry and the refrigerator before the abduction - tofu bacon, a dozen oranges, a loaf of sliced Ezekiel Bread, soy butter, dried cranberries, shade-grown coffee and bottles of kale juice and green tea.

“Let’s eat now, then shoot the photos of Nikki and the coat for when we call in our demands,” Angie said as she walked to Nikki on the bed.

“Would you like breakfast? “ “Oh yummy, yes, please,” Nikki said in a snarky tone. “Have any Cap’n Crunch?” *** Max Ippolito was in his office at Global News Service early.

The storm was weakening, moving east toward the Carolinas, so Max decided to leave news coverage to local TV stations unless something changed. He was getting comfortable in his new role and new office as senior executive producer.

He could see all the Atlanta TV stations’ programming on a bank of video monitors along one wall. Below them were monitors for Fox News Channel, CNN and the original Big Three networks, ABC, CBS and NBC. Max’s direct outside phone line lit up.

“Ippolito here,” he said.

“Max, this is Cassandra Page. I have a big story of national interest that may break this morning here in Atlanta. I want to make sure you haven’t stolen Daryl, my photographer, for some

43

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other thing, like this way-overplayed rainstorm. I’ll need him in less than an hour.”

“Not sure about Daryl, but I’ll check,” “C’mon, Max, you know Daryl and I are a team, right? Like Bonnie and Clyde, Starsky and Hutch, Lewis and Clark, Mickey and Minnie. Please, Max, think Rocky and Bullwinkle, Butch Cassidy and…”

“Fine, I get it, Cass. You and Daryl on the case. Let me know where and when, but hurry. I don’t want to hear it first on the local news.” *** Daryl Evans had been the video photographer on some of Cassie’s big stories when they worked for Atlanta’s Channel 3.

Cassie was the market’s best-known TV reporter, excluding the daily anchor people, whose specialty was crime and corruption.

Her biggest story at the local station was the spectacular homicide of a Hollywood actor, thrown off a balcony on the 46th floor of a condo building. It was headline news worldwide.

Cassie and her lover, Detective James Hagan, had teamed up and caught the killer on Marco Island, Florida.

Soon after, Global News Service hired Cassie and Daryl away from Channel 3 and Detective Hagan was promoted to the Atlanta Police Department’s chief of detectives.

Cassie persuaded Bren Forrest, GNS’s owner, to make Daryl Cassie’s official photographer when the network set up a new crime and corruption division under her control. Handing out her new business cards was gratifying.

Since its origin, Cassie’s team had created several first-rate investigative reports, which thrilled everyone involved.

Cassie phoned Jimmy, who was at the Channel 4 studios prepping the police on duty there.

44

10 ATLANTA The PAP Four, as Brock now called himself and the three other kidnappers, Angie, Spring and Summer, were crowded around a coffee table in the living room of their hideout house in Grant Park, near Zoo Atlanta.

They had put Nikki Z on the floor a few feet away, her ankles and arms firmly fastened with duct tape to a small dining room chair, her sable coat slung over the back.

She felt the fur against her neck and shoulders but couldn’t turn around far enough to see it.

“Why is my coat on this chair?” she asked.

“We’re telling you again, Nikki, keep your voice down or you’ll get a face full of duct tape,” answered Angie. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“But here’s a clue,” Brock said with a sneer. “We are going to protect the earth from its people and your dead sables will help us.”

Brock continued composing on his laptop what he would say in his phone call to the TV bosses.

Nikki decided to try a new tactic on her kidnappers. These twits.

“Brock,” she said in a low, soft voice she rarely used except at funerals, “I’m not your enemy. I’m willing this minute to stand up and raise my hand to salute your PAP crusade. And…” “Bull, Nikki, you’re all talk, parading around in that coat full of slaughtered mammals. Have you ever done one thing to 45

Fatal Ambition

protect a wildebeest, to save a salmon, to rescue a black-eyed tree frog?”

“No, but…”

“No is right,” said Brock. “How about something specific for the cause, something that takes a little courage.”

Nikki thought for a few seconds.

“I once shagged a Greenpeace volunteer from Scotland. He was on a project in the Galapagos Islands. We were…”

“Oh please, spare me your conquests, Nikki. It’s pathetic.”

“Then I guess you won’t want to watch my upcoming threepart TV series exposing the bear poaching business in North Georgia?”

Summer spoke up with a surprised look.

“Nikki, is this more TV hype or what? Like, bear hunters, you mean? Bear rugs on the floor in front of the fireplace? We’re all against that and I don’t get why it’s a big deal. If your TV thing about poaching is super- important, why haven’t we heard about it?”

“Yeah, why?” Spring echoed. “I’m tweeting right now to see whether it’s true or you’re making it up.”

“Stop. Stop,” Nikki said loudly. “It’s still a secret. I’m doing a series on how lowlifes in the mountains track down bears, including the baby bears, the cubs, shoot them and rip out their gall bladders. It’s threatening the bear population in several states by helping rich bastards here get richer selling gall bladders to much richer men in Asia. My show will be a sensation and it’ll save a lot of bears.”

Brock stared at Nikki.

“You think we should let you go because of a TV show?

Maybe it’s nutty, maybe not. I’ll think about it after we handle this other business. Oh, by the way, what do the Asians want with bear gall bladders?”

“They eat them,” Nikki said, “believing they help cure a bunch of ailments, from hemorrhoids to tooth decay, plus diabetes, heart disease, liver disease and more. Now you get it?” *** 46

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

Nikki’s no-show on the late news the night before was the buzz of the break room at Channel 4, heightened by news of the alleged kidnapping phone call. TV station Manager Otis Young, sat in DK’s office, with a lawyer from Smike & Smike, the whiteshoe law firm the station had been using for many years. Detective Hagan and another officer stood at the rear of the room.

“Good morning and thanks for coming.” Otis began. “I need not remind you anything we discuss here stays in this room.

Clear?” Nods all around. “If you have questions, I’ll try to answer them. First. The police now officially are looking for Nikki Z. We have filed a missing persons report. We’re pleased to have Atlanta PD Chief of Detectives, James Hagan, personally supervising the search. We have received a brief phone call from a person who claims to be holding Nikki Z hostage. Detective Hagan has a few words.”

“Good morning. First, we expect to hear again from this socalled kidnapper. Otherwise, the good news is that Ms. Zachos is well known. That is a plus. If she shows up somewhere in north Georgia, someone may recognize her. Our first job now, with your help, is to spread word that she is missing. Channel 4 is using every means to do that, on and off the air. All other media in this area will help, too. Most important, I think you and the staffers you supervise can be of enormous assistance. Think carefully. Have you seen or heard anything here in the station that might give you pause? A casual remark or a rumor? And about Ms. Zachos herself, has she done anything out of character, said or done something unlike her? Also, it may be uncomfortable, but does she have any friends or news contacts or others who you think are odd or unusual? Use your imaginations and your memory. Questions?”

A hand went up in the back of the room.

“Sir, when are we releasing this and how big should we play it, on all our newscasts, day and night, or what?”

“Police and we agree to go all out starting now,” Otis said.

Similar Q & A continued for about ten minutes. “Detective, do you have anything more right now?”

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Fatal Ambition

“Yes sir, two things. First, I want to repeat that, if someone really is holding Nikki against her will, and that’s not a hundred percent yet, they’ll likely call again to brag about their actions and tell us what they’ve done and why. Could be they only want money? If so, we’re lucky. Maybe they’re greedy and we can deal with ransom. But, if they have some other agenda, the lunatic factor can change everything.

“My point is, if you take a call from someone saying they have Nikki or know about what has happened to her, do not hang up.

We want to talk with any caller, serious, profane, insane, crazy, whatever. We have resources to take it from there. My other point, and you may know this but remember, the longer Nikki remains out there, the odds of a rescue get worse.”

48

11 ATLANTA One at a time, Hunter’s eyes opened slowly. A dull sunlight slithered in under the hotel window curtain. She focused for a few seconds, first at her wristwatch.

“Oh, crap, crap-crap-crap-crap.” Her early flight home to Southwest Florida was long gone.

Maybe I can scoot to the airport and catch the next flight to Fort Myers.

That idea evaporated when she tried to sit up in bed.

I’m not sure I can make it to the bathroom, much less out of the hotel and to a cab. Oh boy, the TSA would have their hands full with me standing there with my arms in the air.

She looked at still-on TV and tried to think back to last night, but the only snippet she recalled, as she was sliding into passout drunk mode, was the anchorman, Jerome, saying something about Nikki, a night off, or was away or something. What in the world? Hunter sat straight up in bed, groaning as she reached for the TV remote to turn up the volume.

A commercial for a product called Mr. Lid ended with a happy family admiring their forty-eight-piece set of refrigerator containers with lids attached. The apparent man of the TV commercial family could not contain his excitement.

“With Mr. Lid, you’ll never again suffer another moment of lid loss.”

At this point the TV screen went black for a few seconds, then up came a graphic, “THE SEARCH FOR NIKKI Z” and a full color photo of her, gorgeous.

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“This is a Channel 4 alert, Marco Lopez reporting. Our colleague and friend, Channel 4 anchorwoman Nikki Z, officially is reported missing. She was last seen leaving the Potenza restaurant in Buckhead around nine o’clock last night. Law enforcement agencies statewide are conducting an exhaustive search with the help and cooperation of the Channel 4 management and staff. If you have any information on the whereabouts of Nikki Z, call the number on the bottom of the screen. We’ll have continuing coverage with late-breaking news on this developing story here on Channel 4 plus live streaming online at GoChannel4.com.”

Hunter’s mind was racing faster than her pulse, as facts and fears competed for her attention. She phoned room service for a large pot of coffee and a banana.

All right, settle down. This, whatever this is, couldn’t have anything to do with that phone call I made last night, right? Hell yes it could, but what? Rudy said it was mostly a prank, a way to take Nikki down a notch. I thought...hell I don’t know what I thought. Yeah, she’s probably not really missing, right? Maybe it’s some promotional gimmick by the TV station, promoting their weather coverage. Something like, “Where in Stormoblivion is Nikki Z?” Wouldn’t put it past them. Some of these hotshot on-air people love bad weather. Otherwise why would they do their live reports standing outside in a tornado or a blizzard? Why not stay inside and show the storm through the window?

The room service guy’s knock on the hotel room door brought her out of her musing and make-believe rationalization.

He poured her a cup of coffee, slowly, all the while noticing the attractive face and figure of the unkempt, disheveled blonde.

“Here’s your coffee ma’am. Can I peel the banana for you?”

She looked up at his face, a crooked smile but straight teeth.

“No, thank you, but some other time, maybe. I’m kinda busy right now.”

She tipped the waiter more than she did the cab driver the night before, closed the door, grabbed the cell phone from her purse and punched in the number for Rudy Decker.

If he’s in Naples and I can get home in time maybe we can have dinner and I can get some answers about this Nikki thing.

50

12 ATLANTA “Gather around ladies, it’s show time,” said Brock, acting less nervous than he actually felt, pacing in the living room of the hostage house. He held his talking points in one hand and the TV remote in the other.

“These people need to learn quickly. PAP is here and means business. Also, put Nikki in the chair in here and tape her to it. If she makes a fuss, shut her up.”

He spoke hesitantly, without the commanding presence he had rehearsed and dreamed of for this big moment.

“Brock, maybe you should rest a bit on the couch,” Spring suggested as she and the other two women gestured for him to sit.

“No, standing is better, psychologically, you know. Body language is important. I’ll stand.”

“Brock, try to relax and read your statement out loud now, a tune-up for practice,” Summer suggested. “And, remember, they can’t see your body language.”

That drew a snicker from Angie and an annoyed look from Brock. But he sat, took a deep breath and read his statement.

“Pay close attention. We are PAP, ‘PEOPLE ARE THE PROBLEM’ and we have TV news person Nikki Z …”

“Brock, you’re shouting,” said Spring. “They won’t need the phone to hear you at the TV station from here.”

The women tried to stifle their laughter.

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“Knock it off,” Brock snarled. “I’m not going to rehearse for your entertainment. Get off my back.”

He picked up a cell phone, a use-and-lose burner, squared his shoulders, more of a half-hearted shrug, and tapped in the main phone number at Channel 4.

“Good morning. I’m Daisy. It is a beautiful day in Atlanta, home of Channel 4. How may I direct your call?

“I want to speak to the boss and make it fast. It’s a matter of life and death.”

Brock thought he sounded like a Dick Tracy comic book character. Maybe I should have rehearsed a little more.

“I’ll be happy to connect you right away. Thanks for calling Channel 4 and have a wonderful day.”

The phone operators had their instructions – send all Nikki-related calls to the news director’s office. Be calm. Similar guidance on emails, text messages, Twitter and other social media had been distributed throughout the station.

DK jumped a little when the phone rang. A police technician activated the recording system and keyed in a code, which alerted experts at AT&T. The more ears on the call, the better.

“Hello, DK Jack here.”

“Pay close attention. We are PAP, People Are the Problem, and we have TV newsperson Nikki Z. We will not harm her if she and you do as we say. Do you hear me?”

“Hello, Mr. Pap, this is DK Jack, news director of Channel 4. We are glad to hear you will not hurt Ms. Zachos, Nikki. We agree on that. But how do we know you have abducted her and how do we know she is alive and well?”

Brock was feeling stronger now.

“You know because I told you. And my name is not PAP. That’s the acronym for our organization, People Are The Problem.

You’ll be hearing more about us in…hey, wait a minute. You’re trying to keep me talking to find out where we are. You think you are smart. I’m smart, too. I’ll call back.”

Brock closed the phone, dropped it onto the hardwood floor and stomped on it three times with the heel of his left shoe. He picked up several pieces and tossed them toward Angie.

52

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

“Angie, take this phone and get rid of it,” Brock shouted. She wasn’t expecting cell phone shards flying toward her and so she batted them away.

“What the…”Angie said. “What the hell, Brock?”

“It’s your job now, Angie. Take the car and find a place to ditch this phone junk right away. It could give away our location within minutes. Move it.”

“Where, Einstein, go where?” She was mad and scared.

“Sorry, Angie, sorry. Head north. Stay on the main roads. The storm water will be retreating in the neighborhoods. Keep going until you get to Herbert Taylor Park. You know the place, right?”

“Yes, it’s in Virginia Highlands or Morningside, around there.

I used to walk my Aunt Beatrice’s dog there on Sundays.”

“Great. That park shouldn’t be crowded in this weather.

Scatter the phone pieces in one or both of the creeks there. Spread them out and be sure they’re in the water, not in plain sight.

“Seems kinda haphazard, Brock, I mean what if…”

“Angie, if you don’t want to land in prison for ten years, you better move it now. I’m going to make another call in a minute, sweetie. Do your job. Go.” *** “Good morning, I’m Daisy…”

“Yeah, yeah, lady, can it. Put me on with the man again.”

Brock was using another of the burner phones he purchased.

I may start using these disposables all the time. No contract, no trail, paper or otherwise. It’s a nice touch.

“What shall I call you, if Pap isn’t your name?” DK looked at a note the police scribbled to him as the second phone call came in: “Be calm, talk slowly, but make him produce proof of life ASAP. Tell him we want photo proof Nikki is not hurt.”

“Call me a friend of the earth, Captain Universe, whatever,” Brock said, wallowing in full arrogance. “But if you don’t do what I say, you’ll be calling me Nikki Z’s worst nightmare.”

“Everyone has a right to choose a name to go by. Uh, caller.

May we see Nikki and have a word with her?”

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“See her? How dumb do you think I am? Not dumb enough to send you a cell phone photo. This is no Instagram party, Mr. Jack. No Snapchat either.”

“You have me there, sir. We seem to be at a stalemate. Any suggestions?”

“If we allow Nikki Z to say a few words to you, would you be satisfied?” Brock asked. “Time’s a wasting, Mr. Jack. Hurry up about it.”

“All right,” DK said. “Nikki, hello? Are you there, Nikki?”

“Nikki,” Brock interrupted, “say your name and that you are alive and well. Anything else and it could be the last thing you’ll ever say. Nod if you agree.”

Nikki leaned closer to the phone in Brock’s hand.

“Hello,” she said tentatively.

“Watch it,” Brock barked. “No ad libs or you’ll be sorry.”

Nikki paused and took a deep breath. “My name is Nikki.

Nikki Z-as-in-zebra and I’m alive and well in my habitat.”

“Enough, shut her up again, Sum...” Brock ordered, catching himself before he finished Summer’s name. “Some, uh, time soon, we will talk again.” He thumbed the phone’s off button. *** Detective Hagan left DK’s office in the newsroom and walked a few steps down the hall into the men’s room. Cassie answered his cell phone call on the first ring.

“Hi, Copperhead,” she said smiling, almost out loud. “I mean Head Copper, what’s new?”

“Write this down fast, Cassie. It’ll be your exclusive but only for twenty minutes give or take. Quote sources at the Channel 4 building. That way it could be anybody. A male claiming to be holding Nikki Z hostage has phoned Channel 4 twice this morning. Your source says it sounds credible. No details yet on possible kidnappers’ demands. You’re welcome, Lois Lane.”

“Thanks,” Cassie said with a playful tilt of the head, “Payback time is in approximately twelve hours, our place.”

54

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

Jimmy intentionally did not tell Cassie about hearing Nikki’s voice, the proof of life thing.

That would be a dead giveaway to her source. May have been too close already. Need to be careful, fuzz it up for a while.

Chuckling, Jimmy hurried out of the men’s room and back to the news director’s office. Walking from her car, Cassie almost skipped like a schoolgirl. Daryl waited for her by the Global News Service van, ready for her GNS News Alert live network bulletin.

He had GNS producer Max Ippolito and Cassie connected by cell phone as she put on her wireless microphone.

“It’s big, Max,” Cassie said. “You know Channel 4 has reported anchorwoman Nikki Z as officially missing. We now know she has been kidnapped, claims a caller to the station. I texted you my short, sweet exclusive to distribute to our newscast producers.

How soon can we go live?”

“Give me three minutes, Cass,” Max said. “And Daryl, start right after the news music and the voice intro with a close up of Cassie, then widen the shot to get the big Channel 4 billboard with Nikki on it full screen. I’ll cue Cassie in her earpiece.”

“Fine with me, Max,” Cassie said into her mic. “And hey, this is a big exclusive, but it won’t be for long. Play it up, Max. I’m guessing the cops will have a news conference around noon, then it’ll be a free-for-all.”

“Same page, same page, Cassie, we’re on the same page.” It was Max in her earpiece. “By the way how do you do it?” he asked with mock shock. “You keep on getting crime scoops nobody else does. Do you know every cop in the country?”

“No, I know every bad guy,” Cassie shot back with a laugh.

“Do you wear a vest?” Max was playing, but for a reason.

Even seasoned journalists sometimes get butterflies when a juicy story of national interest comes along. Max was keeping it loose and light.

“A vest? Kinda sorta. More like two small vests, I guess.”

“In five,” Max said hurriedly, clearing his throat, stifling a belly laugh, “four, three, two...”

Dramatic music swelled over a full screen graphic of the GNS logo. A voice with the gravitas of the Archangel Gabriel 55

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boomed the headline written in big red letters, “The Snatch of a TV Anchorwoman!” Up came a large file photo of Nikki, looking intently into the camera. The deep voice said, “It’s a Global News Service Breaking News Exclusive.”

“Show us, Cassie, right now,” Max said to the technical director in the GNS control room.

“Reporting live in Atlanta, Georgia,” intoned the celestial voice, “GNS Law and Order Correspondent Cassandra Page.”

“Sources tell me a prominent Atlanta TV anchorwoman, Nikki Zachos, known to many as Nikki Z, apparently was kidnapped off an Atlanta street in a rainstorm last evening. I can report exclusively that authorities talked by phone with a male caller who claimed to represent an eco-activist organization called PAP, which apparently stands for People Are the Problem.

He says he has Nikki Z, but he has not made any specific demands.

Stay with us on GNS for ongoing coverage. Again, prominent Atlanta TV news anchor Nikki Z apparently has been abducted by a little-known, wildlife-activist person or persons. This is Cassandra Page, live in Atlanta.”

“We’re clear for a bit,” Max said to all hands “but stay in place.

We want to do a couple of live cut-ins and promo spots. And Cassie, poke me on my cell right away please.”

“DK, did you see that exclusive report on GNS? Cassie Page?”

Otis Young was angry because the all-news channel had the latest on the Nikki Z story before her own station, Channel 4.

“I honestly don’t know, Otis,” DK said. “Nobody here at Channel 4 would tell another station first, but…”

“It must stop now, DK, now. Find the bastard and fire ’em.

If that fails, ask your police pal, Detective Hagan, to put some detectives on it. I’m serious, DK. Find the leaker.” *** Cassie removed her earpiece and reached for her cell phone.

Was Max trying not to laugh when he said to call him? Wonder what’s funny?

Before she could phone Max, her cell sounded. It was Jimmy.

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“Some ballsy person at your network graphics department has a sense of humor. Did you see the headline on the screen leading to your live report?”

“I didn’t notice anything in particular, why?”

“Check it out when you can,” Jimmy said, laughing.

“Tell me, what is it?”

“No time now. We’ll be having a media briefing within the hour. See you then. And Cassie, you know the rules.”

She immediately phoned Max at GNS. “I don’t know whether to laugh or shoot myself or everybody in the graphics department,” he said.

“Decide that later, Max. I’m hearing the Channel 4 brass and Atlanta PD will have a media briefing, probably at the TV station, in about an hour. I’ll go there as soon as we finish the promos here.”

“Fine,” Max said. “But, when you get a chance, see if Daryl can play back for you the top of your live shot, with the music and the announcer’s voice. Talk later, bye.” *** Cassie’s thoughts flashed back to what Jimmy had said to her, “You know the rules.”

She knew the rules. She could recite them in her sleep. The fact that she and Jimmy shared a bed was relevant to his infidelity, not to her, of course. No, he was cheating in a way by sharing with Cassie inside knowledge on major crime investigations.

They agreed soon after they fell in love that sharing information would help both their careers. He was a cop almost at the top in his field, chief of detectives, Atlanta PD. She was the best crime reporter in the south when she worked at Atlanta’s Channel 3. Now she led an entire department at Global News Service, known nationally as C&C, Crime and Corruption.

Jimmy could help her get inside information on major crime cases. Cassie often helped Jimmy with intimate details about some of Metro Atlanta’s professional criminals, the big guys.

Being tough, smart, and beautiful sometimes gave Cassie access 57

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to high-roller felons who trusted her with information they’d never give an Irish-American detective from Atlanta’s storied Cabbagetown district.

Socially, Jimmy and Cassie seldom discussed their relationship. Occasionally, a curious friend might ask about the M word - marriage. “Is it in the cards or what?” was the essence of the questions.

Cassie and Jimmy would laugh it off when possible, crack a joke if necessary. The truth was boring. They didn’t look like each other but they sure liked each other’s looks.

They also enjoyed the secret, hazardous arrangement whereby they referred to each other playfully as super heroes. So far, it was good for their careers, too.

58

13 NAPLES, FLORIDA Rudy Decker is one of the people who believe cell phones are not for answering. They are collectors of messages that may, or may not, be returned sometime between immediately and never.

For Rudy, it wasn’t rude to let someone’s call go to the message service. It was self-defense. He thought his latest message from Hunter Freeman was a good example of a call that was best digested before answering. Digested in this case meant sometime after lunch, way after.

“Hi Rudy, it’s me. If you’re there, pick up. We really need to talk now, today, about the disappearance of you-know-who.

What, you’re not taking my call, I guess. As usual. Call me as soon as you get this. I’m coming home this afternoon. Let’s have dinner. Tonight.”

Several years ago, Rudy made a major decision about women who phone him and say some version of, “Hi, it’s me.” No name.

Only “It’s me.” He hated that for several reasons, which he explained to a couple of friends the night before during a lull in one of the almost weekly poker games he enjoyed at the Naples Beach Hotel and Golf Club.

“For one thing, if I don’t immediately recognize the voice of the babe who’s calling, I’m at a disadvantage.”

Two of the other players concurred, one with a nod and the other with a “You got that right.”

“Then there are the ones that go, ‘Hi Rudy, this is your smokin’ hot mama’ or some fake cool expression. As if there’s only one 59

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hot mama, right?” More nods and a “right on” from Hoover, the oldest guy at the table and maybe at the entire club. He almost always said whatever he was thinking. No filter.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a beauty on your arm who says, ‘Hi, it’s me’ than some grammar-gifted savant with a face like an Edsel?”

“Hoover, once again you manage to keep your eyes on the prize,” Rudy said. “And in that spirit, deal the cards, my friend.

I’m down a couple of Grover Clevelands.”

“Rudy, you seem a cauldron of contradictions. When you’re not here at the club, or in the society pages flashing those Chicletwhite choppers and rubbing elbows with the town’s rich and famous, where do you go? What do you do?”

“Hell, I go find some poker players across town who aren’t much good at it,” Rudy said, deflecting a question he was not going to answer. “I win enough from them to show up here and lose it all to you guys. Speaking of which, how about now? Deal, Paulie.”

Rudy enjoyed poker immensely, winning or losing. A call from Angie wasn’t an immediate temptation. He left the phone on vibrate and plowed ahead, winning a hand or two, also losing some.

When nature called, however, he really needed to answer.

In the nearby restroom, he decided to multi-task, listening to Angie’s message with his free hand.

“Call me, Rudy, please. Hurry. I have a small window here when I can talk. Brock made me drive a long way from our location to ditch a phone he used to contact the TV station. Now they know Nikki has been kidnapped by PAP. Brock’s calling back with our demands and you know this’ll be all over the media.

Are we all right so far, Rudy? Please call me, sweetie. Brock is making me nervous, thinks he’s hot stuff. I’m on my way back to the house now. Call me, please. I miss you,” she said, with a quiver in her voice. “I need you.”

His phone sounded again as he erased Angie’s message. It was Hunter, again, and this time her message fumed with anger.

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“Damn you, Rudy, what did you get me into? A ‘prank,’ was it, you bastard? ‘Taking her down a peg’? Oh yeah? I know the odds of all this having nothing to do with my ten-second phone call from Potenza. Yeah, right. Gimme a break. I’m booked on a one-forty Delta to Fort. Myers. Tell me where we’re gonna meet tonight. Call me, Rudy. Call me.”

Rudy stepped over to the basin, washed his hands and ran his fingers through his thick, black hair. He was rattled, not a normal feeling for him, especially if caused by a woman, two women. He walked slowly down the hall back to the poker game.

“Where you been, Rudy? The cards are getting cold.”

Rudy offered a shoulder shrug and a half-hearted hand wave.

“Ready,” he said. “A couple of business calls. Let’s play.”

“Right, but you might want to zip it up before you sit down.”

“Some business calls, eh, Rudy?” They all laughed.

61

14 CHANNEL 4 STUDIOS – ATLANTA “Let’s get started. A life may be at stake.”

Otis Young, station manager at Channel 4, was standing behind a hastily-dusted-off podium in Studio B, the smaller of the two TV studios at the station. Crowded around him and filling the room were news cameras from all of Atlanta’s TV stations, plus Global News Service, radio reporters and print photographers. By this time tomorrow the story would be national and the place would be crammed with twice as many media people and their electronics. Already, spillover spectators, mostly Channel 4 staffers, were in adjoining Studio A, watching the quickly arranged news conference on large TV monitors.

“Thank you for coming here on short notice,” Young said.

“Our goal is to share what we know about the Nikki Z situation as soon as we know it. We are thankful to have the expertise of the Atlanta Police Department, county and local law enforcement from around the state and the resources of the FBI’s Atlanta field office. You all know Atlanta PD’s Chief of Detectives, James Hagan.”

Jimmy walked to the podium, with a palm-sized remote device in his hand.

“As has been reported, people have called to say they have Ms. Zachos, Nikki Z, as a hostage. They claim to represent a group called PAP: People Are the Problem. Our office has never heard of them. If you know them, please let us know. A third call came in a short time ago. It’s best you hear it. We don’t normally 62

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handle kidnappings in this way, but the obvious goal of these criminals is publicity for their cause, whatever it is. We will give that to them as a gesture of good will.”

The room filled with surprised gasps and questions, hands raised, all trying to out-shout each other.

“You’re gonna’ meet their demands?”

“You’re giving in to kidnappers?” And many more like that.

“Calm down,” Jimmy said, “I want you to hear the third call.”

He clicked the remote twice and up came Brock’s voice.

“Listen to me, Mr. DK, we at PAP are tired of your tricks. We have Nikki and you want her back. We have a three-point plan for everybody to be happy. How’s that sound?”

“Slow down, please, I’m making notes,” DK said. “A three … point…plan …right. Go ahead.”

“First,” Brock said in a snooty tone, “Nikki must renounce her sadistic habit of wearing that hideous fur coat.. It’s an insult to mammals the world over.”

“Kill the coat,” DK said. “Check. Oh, what kind of fur is that, by the way?”

“Sable, damn you. She must destroy it in a public ceremony, aired by every media outlet in the country. Live. With translations into languages to be named later and sign language experts for the hearing impaired.”

“While you’re asking, Pap,” DK replied, “any preference on method of fur coat destruction?

“That’s number three,” Brock sniffed. “As you are aware, Miss Nikki is scheduled to host the upcoming fundraising event at the zoo. Correct?”

“Yes, it’s called the Beastly Feast,” DK said tentatively, his pretense of indulging Brock’s bizarre wish list in high gear.

“All she has to do is walk onstage at the Beastly Feast, wearing the coat, then take it off and set fire to it. When the applause dies down, she can take a bow, walk out of the spotlight and into your welcome arms.”

On the tape, DK could be heard trying to repress a laugh.

After a second or two of unsuccessful self-control, he recovered and replied, “I’ve never heard anything quite like this, Mr. Pap.” 63

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“My name’s not Pap and you know it, Mr. DK. And what does DK stand for anyway? Dumb Klutz, maybe?”

“All right, all right, enough,” DK said. “Hilarious, sir, simply hilarious. We need time to make your remarkable proposal into a workable plan. Give us a day or two.”

“Try again, DK. Twelve hours, max.” The call went dead and the room full of stunned media people buzzed. Detective Hagan walked to DK, leaned in and whispered, “Great job, DK. By the way, what do you think PAP really stands for?”

“Pathetic and Psychotic,” DK said. “The second P is silent.” *** As the media people gathered their gear and their wits for their next assignments, Cassie elbowed her way out the door to a hallway, excited to be ahead of the pack as the story unfolded.

When she felt that way, instincts leading to insights, it usually meant she was at or near a really good news story and this time it was a great one, so she was pumped as she phoned Daryl.

“Daryl, please make certain Max has whatever video he needs from us for use on the air later today. And find out when we can talk with the GNS brass about where to go next on this thing.”

“Will do, Cass,” Daryl said, “but where are you going right now?”

“I’m going to poke around and find out what I can about what Nikki has been working on, some story that could defog this whole situation.”

Cassie returned to the hall and glided through the crowd, aiming for a near miss with Jimmy. Her target in range, she flicked his lower back with her thumb and little finger. No one seemed to notice, not even Jimmy.

Really should aim lower next time.

She stopped briefly to say hello to station manager Otis Young, then left the studio and headed to the Channel 4 newsroom. ***

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After twenty minutes chatting with Channel 4 staffers - two producers and a writer - Cassie realized if she wanted information on Nikki’s work projects, she needed to talk with RoAnn Gantry.

The veteran producer for the station’s Special Projects unit was unofficially, but unquestionably, Nikki’s personal producer.

Cassie recalled meeting her when Cassie was at Channel 3 and RoAnn was a weekend news producer. Seeing her now was a shock. She seemed a different person, a specific different person who now walked, talked and gestured like Nikki Z. “Good to see you again, RoAnn. Any news about Nikki they’re not telling the others?” Cassie asked with an off-handed look. When RoAnn answered, for a second Cassie thought she was channeling Nikki.

She blinks like Nikki does when she gets animated. Take away her pale Irish complexion, give her a big black wig and put her in a sable coat and she could buy stuff with Nikki’s credit card, no problem.

“Hello, Cassandra, how’s life treating you in the big time at GNS?” RoAnn asked, her chin thrust forward in a classic Nikki Z stance.

“I love my job there.” Cassie replied. “It lets me still live in Atlanta yet go almost anywhere for a story.”

RoAnn tensed up, her hand squeezing the leather back on an office chair at her side.

“You have one on your hands now, Cassie, and I assume that’s why you want to see me.” It was an accusation, not a question.

“I won’t waste your time. The dumb fur coat thing is silly, no matter how bleary-brained these kidnappers may be. They must have something else in mind.”

“Maybe, maybe,” RoAnn said, with a Nikki-like look that could make an adversary bolt for the door. “Maybe they are dipshits. But to Nikki, the coat is not dumb or silly, as you put it.

You don’t get that. Nobody gets it. To her, that twelve-thousand dollar sable is worth millions.”

“Why?” Cassie asked. “Why does a mature, smart woman need something this over the top to…”

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“Hold it,” RoAnn interrupted. “To Nikki it’s not over the top. It’s not a status symbol to show off to other people. It’s for her, deep down inside her psyche. She grew up in a struggling family. Her father was a hard-working immigrant from Greece who worked his way up to a good job at the St. Louis airport, but was injured when a cart loaded with luggage fell on him. He hated being on permanent disability and began drinking heavily.

He often referred to himself in his boozy rantings as ‘the town’s welfare chiseler.’ The family moved several times to smaller and smaller rental houses. Her mom took in laundry. Are you getting the picture, Cassandra?”

“Yes, but the coat…”

RoAnn’s eyes welled with tears. “It’s corny, but true. Nikki told me that when she was fifteen, she was putting clothes into her mother’s bedroom dresser when she found a small photo album with pictures of her grandmother, taken in Greece at age twenty or so. Over her shoulders, she was wearing a fur stole, the kind with the animal head still on it. ‘Ya-Ya,’ as Nikki called her, was smiling and waving in the photo, happy and having a great time.

Somehow, that image lodged in Nikki’s mind as emblematic of a good life, the life she wanted, not the dreary life she was having as a teenager here. Over the years the symbol of success evolved but never left her.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Cassie said, “but doesn’t she wear the sable now mostly to annoy people and to make the animal rights activists foam at the mouth?”

RoAnn shook her head. “Maybe, a little, but don’t you see, it’s not about pissing off others. That’s too easy. It’s about validating herself. When she landed this anchor job in Atlanta, she finally saved enough money to go all out. Thus, the sable coat. It is, literally, close to her heart.”

Cassie was fascinated, but impatient. “Thanks, RoAnn. This will help. And, if I can keep you for a few more minutes, tell me what Nikki has been working on, a story maybe, or a hot interview, something that might relate to her kidnapping. I know it’s probably farfetched, but any little thing…”

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“First, Cassie, do you think these kidnapper freaks have any idea what’ll happen when Nikki and I get hold of them?

They’ll…they...let’s assume they may want to get their affairs in order. Because, after they meet up with us, the next person they’ll meet is their maker.”

“I get it,” Cassie said. “You and your hero, Nikki, are tougher than The Transformers and will feed the bastards to the carnivores at the zoo. I’m officially scared. Now, what can you tell me, RoAnn?” “Off the record, totally off, right?”

“You have my word, RoAnn.”

67

15 ATLANTA & NAPLES Jimmy Hagan sent two of his detectives to interview Hunter Freeman at her hotel, but she had checked out.

“Sure, I’m sure,” said the young woman at the front desk.

“I know her. She stays with us often. Seemed a bit flushed, in a hurry, I guess.”

The cops questioned the doorman. “She beat me opening the taxi door, told the cabbie to take her to the airport and shoved her bag in the back seat with her. No tip.”

Hunter’s cab scooted south along Piedmont Road, the pavement still wet and puddly. Her mind was clearer than the night before. Almost sober, she was nervous, scared, slightly nauseous and mad as hell at Rudy.

He never returned her distress-filled phone calls. He misled her about the “harmless” call she made from the restaurant, about Nikki leaving, after their dinner. He called it a prank.

Hunter stared out the taxi window at nothing in particular, thinking over and over about her brief phone call, each time hoping for an answer that made sense. Or at least an answer that didn’t implicate her.

If he ever wants to parade me around on his arm again at those high-end charity fund-raisers he better have answers. Yeah, but he’s fun and he knows everybody who’s anybody in Naples. What if he’s involved in the kidnapping? Can they arrest me too, for those few seconds on the phone? Why would he use me? We’ve enjoyed a good relationship since, let’s see, couple of years now. I was working 68

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in Naples at WHUP-TV. What was the occasion I was covering?

Oh, I think, yes, it was Kidneys for Kids at the Ritz Carlton. Wow, it was sex at first sight, or seems like. *** Hunter scanned the hotel ballroom, at the Ritz, her young cameraman, Jeffrey, at her side. They needed somebody for a quick interview, a sound bite to go with video Jeffrey already recorded, a sampling of the luxury items viewers could bid on at the ongoing silent auction. Among the attractions were a pure silver protective case for iPhones, a two-week scuba trip to the Great Barrier Reef in Australia, a putter signed and once owned by golfing legend Gene Sarazen and a velvet box that held an ebony flash drive containing the complete works of Ezra Pound.

Hunter wanted to poke mild good fun at these auctions, all the while praising them for their shrewd ability to raise piles of money. And she relished the relative ease of meeting handsome strangers that often went with having a friendly TV camera and microphone in hand, unless the guy was under indictment or in the witness protection program. She assumed the man in her crosshairs that night was neither.

When she tapped him on the shoulder of his tux jacket, he turned, looked at her, then pulled in his stomach a bit and said in his over-the-top imitation of FDR addressing the nation, “Are you checking out my tux, madam, or are you merely glad to see me?” He looked at the video camera and smiled.

“Oh, sorry,” Hunter grinned, “I thought you worked here. Do you?”

“It depends on how you define work.”

“I’m Hunter, Hunter Freeman, with WHUP-TV Channel 23.

And what’s your name if I may?”

“Rudy, Rudy Decker.”

“Rudy? Are you ‘Tutti Frutti Oh Rudy?’’’

They laughed and Hunter motioned to the cameraman to start recording their conversation.

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“Tell me, Mr. Decker, do you see anything you like at the event?” *** The blare of the taxi horn interrupted Hunter’s Rudy reverie.

She looked up and saw the traffic easing to the right lanes, so her cab probably was no more than ten or fifteen minutes from the Departures entry to the airport.

Seems like yesterday, Rudy and me together. Hell it WAS yesterday, but totally different from our earlier time. Wonderful time. Was wonderful, for a while, cool evenings out, warm days in the sun, steamy, sex-filled nights. Kind of a blur now. For months we were “such a lovely couple” with great hair, good teeth, me all over TV and him all over me, when he was in town.

I loved trying to get to know him and about him. I asked him about his childhood, schools, first car, first kiss, first job, why he increasingly was traveling more than ever. I’ve never known what he does for a living. Still don’t. He always says “investments.” Hell, a pair of Jimmy Choos is an investment. Too many questions asked, too few answered. Often Rudy said he couldn’t remember much about his life before me. Now this.

Hunter checked her phone before going through security at the airport. Still no response from Rudy to her calls. She tensed again, a blend of fear and anger at him.

She moved on autopilot through the airport system. She knew it by heart; dodging other pedestrians, avoiding the electric golf cart menaces that honked their way, the whole way, sidestepping passengers in wheelchairs, a few of whom were faking it, escalators, the motorized walkways to the expansive array of terminal gates, everything. The experience would have brought on its usual result, temporary depression. But, on this trip, Hunter was occupied with more powerful anxieties.

Life with Rudy has been a peaks-and-valleys challenge. Let’s face it, he has all of me and I have about half of him. Especially since I bounced my success with Avon into this TV imageconsulting gig. I come home and tell him all about the craziness 70

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

in the TV news business and he says, “That’s terrific, honey, now take off your top.” When we‘re both in Naples, times together seem mostly drinking and the pleasures of, what do they call it, friends with benefits. He loves my ass but he doesn’t notice or comment on my great hair anymore. He used to tell me my laugh was cute. Is it still?

For a long time, Hunter either didn’t notice Rudy’s tendency to use people or ignored it. It seemed irrelevant to her while she was working at the Naples TV station. She was on TV and that was an attraction. Rudy might be rude to her while they glided their way through the Grapes and Apes gala to benefit the Naples Zoo. Yet for Hunter, a few fawning people rushing up to her with compliments and requests for autographs gave her high hopes for making it to the media big leagues one day. And, when that euphoria went poof, she and Rudy could always go to her condo and get high.

Hunter never learned a key rule for media celebrities - do not confuse recognition with affection. For example, say she was in a restaurant or a shop, a couple would see her, walk over and say, “Aren’t you…aren’t you…oh, we watch you all the time… you’re…”

Hunter might help them with a friendly, “I’m Hunter Freeman of Channel 23 news.”

“No, that’s not it,” the couple would say, “but we watch you all the time.”

Hunter took that as fans being excited to see her and they were tongue-tied. She was enthralled with being recognized from TV and didn’t even blink when one elderly man outside a movie theater asked, “Are you on TV?” “Yes, I’m Hunter Freeman. What’s your name?’

He said his name, stared at her a moment, then said, “Ya know, you look better on TV.” Hunter loved everything about TV news except her nagging inability to get hired in a big city. Generally that included stations in the ten or fifteen most populous metro areas, plus the all-news networks and the old, traditional networks, ABC, CBS and NBC. “The Show,” she called it, the name baseball players have used for decades for the major leagues. The big time.

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She kept trying, peppering the TV universe with video resumés, samples of her work on the Naples station and eightby-ten glossy photos appropriate to the places where she applied.

With help from a photo shop expert at the Naples TV station, working off the clock and out of the building, she ordered a series of pinup-type prints made.

In the photos she sent to TV stations in Dallas and Houston, she posed provocatively wearing a cowboy hat and skimpy chaps.

For Philadelphia, she was dressed as a runway model version of Ben Franklin. To the Washington DC stations, the photos were of her at the Lincoln Memorial, wearing a busty, civil war era dress and perched on Mr. Lincoln’s knee. She couldn’t figure out why none of those “You Need to Hire Me” efforts worked.

Eventually she ran out of patience, wearied from smiling lamely while opening emails and texts explaining that, while she has “potential,” they were “going in a different direction.”

After months of that, Hunter went in her own direction.

She drank too much, put a noisy, rambling curse on an entire generation of TV executives, screwed Rudy regularly and realized, finally, that her budding Avon business reflected what those lying TV executives said about her TV on-air talents - potential.

Then, Hunter and media consulting clicked. She landed at one of the larger consulting firms and built a portfolio of stations and networks that paid generously for her talents. In short, she was great at selling herself, hands-on, just not on TV. She got along with most of the on-air anchors and reporters she was hired to help. The smartest ones paid attention. Some, including Nikki Z, didn’t.

In Hunter’s estimation, Nikki was afflicted with an overabundance of self-esteem. She always would push back when challenged. Hunter also secretly thought she was as good an onair talent as Nikki Z. The result was a no-win scenario for her.

One evening, when Rudy suggested offhandedly after a particularly vigorous lust fest, that she help him “pull a prank” on Nikki, Hunter sat up, growled at him and yelled, “Yes, yes.

Let’s. They don’t call me ‘The Huntress, for nothing.”

72

16 NAPLES When the taxi taking Hunter home from the Fort Myers airport turned into the forecourt of her condo in Naples, she was emotionally bottomed out. The brief phone call she made about Nikki from the Atlanta restaurant loomed like a beast in her brain, a beast with Rudy’s face on it.

The cab driver tried to engage his sexy, blonde passenger in conversation. She ignored him. He tried again, looking at her in his rear-view mirror. Silence. He noticed her hand was shaking when she touched her face.

“Troubles, ma’am? I’m a good listener.”

Hunter heard him talking but didn’t get the question. Her throat felt scratchy, dry.

“We’re almost there, driver, on your right. No, on your left.

Yes, left.”

The cab stopped, Hunter opened the door, stepped out, and headed for the lobby door.

“Ma’am, your luggage, wait a minute.”

“Oh, sorry, yes, thanks.”

“And you haven’t paid me,” the driver said, shaking his head.

She gave him almost twice the fare without looking at the bills and walked quickly into the building. She fobbed open the door to her second-floor apartment, wheeled her roller tote into a corner of the bedroom and went straight to the galley kitchen.

An almost full fifth of Tito’s vodka and a bottle of cranberry juice shared a small shelf on the refrigerator door. No Cointreau, 73

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no lime, no matter. Hunter filled a tumbler with vodka and ice, splashed in a thimble of cranberry juice and drank, a long pull.

My emergency Cosmo.

She hoped it wouldn’t take long to fill the emptiness in the pit of her stomach left by the revulsion in helping kidnap Nikki Z. She passworded her iPhone correctly on the second try and saw someone had left a message.

“Ms. Freeman, this is Chief of Detectives Jimmy Hagan, Atlanta Police. Sorry to bother you. I was hoping we could meet while you were in Atlanta. You may have heard via the news media about the abduction and apparent kidnapping of Ms. Zachos, Nikki Z. Our information indicates you may have been one of the last persons to see her or speak to her before she went missing after leaving the Potenza Restaurant in Buckhead. Please phone me at your earliest opportunity. Time is of the essence and we hope you have information that would help us in our investigation. Again, please call me. It is urgent.”

Hunter dropped the phone on the kitchen counter, took another drink and felt herself beginning a world-class panic attack.

They know something. The cop was way too polite, super phony polite. But how could they know? That call only lasted a couple of, hell, I don’t know. Should I call the Atlanta cops back? Must ask Rudy, that son of a bitch. He’d be furious if I said anything to the police, but not half as pissed off as I am at him. If he doesn’t fix this, I may turn his sorry ass over to Mr. Detective What’s-his-name. I’d like to see Rudy squirm a little under the cop’s scrutiny. Thinks he’s smarter than anybody. *** “You rat bastard, I…” Rudy jerked his cell phone away from his ear as Hunter’s screaming trash talk filled the room. Her fury, fear and refilled Cosmo washed over him as he listened to the rest of her jumbled, rambling meltdown message. Her point was clear amidst the near hysterical clamor. An Atlanta police detective phoned her, a scary development. Hunter decided 74

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

Rudy must make this go away or she would return that detective’s call. Tonight.

She’s right about that. Need to make this go away now.

Rudy punched in Hunter’s cell number. While waiting for her to answer, he scrolled over and removed her from his Favorites list.

“Rudy? Thank God you called.”

Hunter’s voice level was lower, calmer, but she was weepy, whimpering.

“Can you come right now? We need to talk. Should I call the Atlanta cops back, Rudy? Or, what should I do, Rudy? I’m scared.

Come over, Rudy, please.”

“Yeah, of course. Let’s talk about it before we contact Atlanta police. I’ll be over. It won’t be long. I’m in East Naples with a client, then I need to go home, change and I’ll be at your place.”

“Please hurry.”

“Oh, hey, Hunter, don’t I still have a clean tux shirt over there, in that back closet?

“Yeah, probably, why? I don’t feel like going out until we get this Nikki thing worked out.”

“No, no, me neither, I only wondered ‘cause I only had two clean ones in my closet and I didn’t know whether one’s at the cleaners or at your place. No problem. Are there a couple of T-shirts there too?”

“Yeah I guess. What’s with the clothes questions?” Hunter asked, an edge of upset creeping back into her voice.

“Nothing, honey, thanks. Relax a little. It’s going to be fine.

See you soon. Kisses.”

Rudy chuckled to himself as he erased Hunter’s message.

East Naples, that’s a hoot. I haven’t been down there in years.

He stood in the master bedroom of his comfortable bungalow in old Naples, a stone’s throw from Fifth Avenue South. The house was old when Rudy’s parents bought it. The property in that coveted area close to the city’s main shopping and entertainment center skyrocketed in the ensuing decades. Rudy could not afford to buy it today. His parents had left the house to him when they died, free and clear, as his dad used to say.

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Over the next few years Rudy often said “free and clear.” It was part of his effort to brand himself, to give himself a public persona that would make it easier to pursue his true life’s plan play for pay.

Hunter Freeman fit into Rudy’s game plan perfectly. They made a great show couple – attractive, apparently affluent, major supporters of several key charitable organizations in the Naples area.

Suddenly, however, Rudy decided Hunter was no longer the arm-candy beauty who enhanced his image as a wealthy, handsome, philanthropist. She was becoming unreliable, unstable and unnecessary.

Stupid mistake on my part. I never should have asked her to make that call. How do I undo this? Only one way. Free and clear.

76

17 NAPLES Rudy looked good in a tux and knew it. Some of his golf and gambling buddies told allegedly true stories of his success with women. Rudy’s personal favorite response was to relate his “foolproof tricks on how to score.”

“It’s easy,” Rudy would say in his looking-down-his-nose manner. “I treat the older ladies like they’re younger and the younger chicks like they’re legal.”

Hilarious, and the guys think it’s true. Why tell them otherwise?

They think I’m thirty-five max. It’s amazing how a hot car takes years off a man’s age.

Rudy thought he looked especially cool while tooling around Naples in his BMW convertible. He had arranged the car through a dealer in Tampa. So, no local dealers in Naples would know it was a lease, not a purchase. When he arrived at the Naples Zoo, he drove past a dozen or more vacant parking places to a spot at the far end of the pavement. He avoided valet parking so he could leave at will, far from the main entrance.

It was a big night for the zoo, an annual fund-raising event called Grapes & Apes. It was a gala featuring great wines – the Grapes part of the name – in a setting where the Apes and other animals tolerate a few hundred wealthy humans because they come with open wallets and purses for zoo-related causes.

These high concept charitable balls, banquets and galas were right in Rudy’s wheelhouse, his comfort zone. With his black tie and dazzling dentures, he definitely enjoyed home 77

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field advantage. Hosts and hostesses liked having Rudy at their tables. He nodded and grinned, made light small talk easily, was a passable dancer and often opened the bidding at the auctions and raffles.

Rudy arrived early for Grapes & Apes on purpose. He chatted up the women on the welcome desk and a few asked whether Ms. Freeman was joining him that evening.

“I hope. She’s flying in sometime tonight but I’m not sure when. He cruised the room, doing his smooth Rudy routine with friendly gestures and an “I like you” smile.

He strolled along some of the cages and fences, saying hello to working zoo employees. In short, Rudy was part Energizer Bunny and part Zac Efron, a cool, warm-hearted guy. His plan was for few to notice his departure and few, if any, did.

Fifteen minutes later, Rudy parked half a block from Hunter’s apartment building. He took off his tux jacket and shirt and left them neatly on the back seat. He pulled a black tee shirt from the console and put it on, careful not to mess up his hair. He secured the top on the convertible, locked it, walked past the front lobby into the ground-level, covered parking garage and up the stairs to the second floor.

He tapped twice on the door to her apartment. Hunter opened it, stepped back, polished off her drink with a big swig and waved him in with a shaky bow.

“Welcome, Mr. Wizard, do you have some magic for me or am I going to grow old in prison?”

Rudy laughed nervously, realizing Hunter was ripped. “Hi, Babe, welcome home,” he said, moving to put his arms around her. She pushed him away.

“What are we gonna do, Rudy? I’m serious. What … are …we … going … to … do?”

“Calm down, Hunter, calm down. It’s a blip, a minor issue.”

“A blip, Rudy? A freaking blip?”

She began tapping her iPhone on her glass. “I may want to call the Atlanta cops in a minute and tell them about our blip. Or maybe you wanna talk with that detective dude?”

Rudy ignored her question and walked into the kitchen.

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“I’m gonna grab a beer from the fridge. What are you drinking, your usual Cosmo? Can I get you a refill?”

“I’ll get my own damn drink,” Hunter snapped, stomping into the kitchen and grabbing the vodka bottle from Rudy’s hand.

“Rudy, look at me. Look at ME,” she said, spilling the vodka she poured into her glass. “Did you kidnap Nikki Z? Did you?”

She slumped a bit, leaning against the countertop around the sink, her eyes darting from side to side with fear. Rudy opened a drawer alongside the sink, then another and another.

“What are you doing? Stop screwing around and listen to me.”

“I’m looking for a beer bottle opener, Hunter, and I am listening.” Rudy lowered his voice as Hunter raised hers.

“You know this will cost me my consulting job, whether the police charge me with anything or not. I can’t see any way out of this, Rudy, unless I tell the cops you made me make that call.

And it’s true, too.”

Hunter was slurring and sobbing, about to throw up or pass out, or both.

“Mr. Man About Town, whash it gonna be? How are we, you, going to squeeze outa thish mess?”

What it’s not going to be is my ass in trouble. Sorry, Hunter, but you are no longer an asset.

Rudy already had the knife in his hand, an ordinary kitchen utensil he had found in her cutlery drawer.

Perfect. Probably a million of them from Walmart. I know if I were a burglar and surprised a noisy woman who came home from work, I’d silence her like this, right?

Rudy plunged the knife into her chest and twisted it back and forth several times in a slashing motion. Hunter did not scream in pain or cry out in fear. She looked stunned, puzzled and helpless, as she fell to the floor face up. Her right arm went out for a second, trying to break the fall, then went limp. Blood splashed, slowed and then seeped. Rudy would have to lose his tee shirt.

Rudy felt nothing as he watched Hunter die. His long-enjoyed ability to rationalize his actions was honed.

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If she only told police the truth, that Nikki left the restaurant alone, saying she was headed back to the TV station. If only. The cops didn’t know about that ten-second phone call. End of story.

But no. Gorgeous but dim-witted Hunter got all emotional.

Rudy carried out the rest of his plan.

Make the scene look like Hunter must have surprised a burglar when she came home from the airport. He panicked and killed her with her own kitchen knife. The apartment looks ransacked, as in, why let the stupid, drunken woman spoil a perfectly good burglary?

The bad guy stole stuff, tossed things around and skedaddled.

Works for me. Free and clear. Time to get back to the Grapes and Apes. It’s as though I never left. *** Rudy didn’t rush getting back to the zoo. Slow and easy, careful. He took a couple of side streets for a few minutes and again parked his car near the back. Walking to the entrance, he clamped his cell phone to his ear, talking to no one. If people asked where he’d been, he had stepped outside to take a call.

Then he strode inside to the men’s room for a mirror inspection to make sure the tux shirt and jacket looked right. It wasn’t easy to change clothes while driving with one hand on the steering wheel. Clothes and hair in place, he walked to the small bar near the bandstand.

“Hey, Alex, good to see you,” he said, shaking the bartender’s hand with both of his. “I started the evening at Jolene’s bar over by the buffet, but guess what, she’s out of Savannah Bourbon.

Didn’t have Bulleit either. How about you?”

“I have the Bulleit, Mr. Decker, but the Savannah is long gone. It flies out of here. Ice? Water?”

“Neither, Alex, thanks. Neat.”

“Rudy, there you are, you lovely man, come dance with me this minute.”

“Delighted, Agatha, glad you have time for me,” Rudy responded, putting down his drink to take her extended, jewelry encrusted hand. “But don’t get too revved or I won’t be able to keep up.”

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She presented a wry look in a manner which meant, goodnaturedly, “Never bullshit a bullshitter.”

Agatha Wearmsley could buy the Naples Zoo if she wished, but she mostly settled for being the doyen of the area’s social or cultural zoo-related events. Her late third husband was the heir to the Wearmsley Tea fortune in the United Kingdom. She was proper, discreet, judgmental and salty, sometimes referring jokingly to Rudy as “My rogue, runaround boyfriend.”

They danced, but the music was irrelevant to the moment.

They mostly talked while moving their feet slowly.

“Where’s your delicious little blonde friend tonight, Rudy?

Your right forearm looks positively naked without her. They both chuckled.

“She’s in Atlanta, I think, probably coming home sometime tomorrow.”

“Pity, I must say, Rudy,” Agatha said softly to his right ear.

“Short term, I get it, but you can do better, especially if brains matter along with beauty.”

“Thank you for that nice compliment, Agatha,” Rudy said.

“Any more advice before we leave this successful, fun evening?”

“There is one more small thing, Rudy. Next time you want to sneak out of one of my events, you don’t have to pretend you never left.”

As she spoke she opened the small, beaded evening bag hanging from her shoulder. From it she took an embroidered linen handkerchief and gently removed a tiny red mark from Rudy’s neck, below his ear. She put the handkerchief back into her bag.

“A little red thingy on your ear, dear. A speck. I got it.

Probably lipstick,” she said with a trace of a squint. Before Rudy could react, she put a forefinger to her lips.

“No worries, dahling. You’re not fooling anybody, at least not me. But it’s fine. I don’t care with whom you’re cutting a rug elsewhere, as long as you come back to me, to us, for the finale.

Or as my slightly younger friends put it, the ‘after party.’”

81

18 ATLANTA Angie felt she was about to drown or suffocate. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened involuntarily as the radio coverage of the news conference about Nikki Z poured out of the car radio.

She was driving south after chucking the burner phones as Brock ordered, the first in Taylor Park and the second in a dumpster at a condo construction site on North Highland Avenue.

As she phoned Rudy Decker to update him on their situation, Brock’s tinny, highbrow voice came through the radio on the recording police played for the news media.

“All she has to do is appear at the Beastly Feast at Zoo Atlanta, walk out on stage wearing the coat, then take it off and set fire to it. When the applause dies down, she can take a bow, walk out of the spotlight and into your welcome arms.”

It must be a police trick or something. I know Brock is an officious pain, but he’s not insane, is he? Either way he’s lost it and we’re all going to pay for it.

Angie slowed the Prius and pulled into a convenience store parking area. Shaking a bit, she redialed Rudy and was surprised he answered instantly.

“Angie, what is Brock up to. You’re supposed to be controlling him. What happened?”

“You heard his demand to the cops?”

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“Did I hear it? The whole world heard it. You have to get back to the, the place and straighten him out. If he’s turning on us or something …”

“Rudy, I don’t think that’s true. I think he’s naïve, an overgrown trust-fund baby. No kidding, Rudy, sometimes he actually struts around that house down there, showing off for Nikki, waving around his stupid gun like he’s trying to join her social clique or something. It’s weird. Rudy, I…” “Angie, you must make Brock stop issuing those stupid demands. Doesn’t he realize that if she walked on stage police would rescue her and grab the rest of you? He’d rat us out and… just do it, please.”

“Sweetie, I’m crazy in love with you. Why don’t you and I take off?”

Rudy started to yell at her, then paused and softened his voice.

“Come on Angie, you know you’re my girl and when I get up there, soon, we’ll talk about our future. I promise. But you have to be strong for now.”

“Can we talk by phone tonight, Rudy, at least for a little while?

This whole plan, this idea, I’m scared.”

“Can’t tonight, darlin’. I have one of these black tie charity things here in town at the Naples Zoo. You know, save the critters, all that. Hey, maybe next year you can attend this with me. With your wildlife thingy connection, you’d fit right in.”

Angie giggled. “It’s not a ‘thingy’ and you know it, mister,” she said with a pretend frown in her voice. “It’s the North Georgia Wildlife Preservation Association. And yes, I’d love to be there with you next time. Anywhere with you, any time, Rudy.”

“Right. You need to get with Brock, calm him down and keep him off the phone with police. Do whatever works to keep him cool. Do anything he wants. Anything, you understand, honey?”

“I do, I do and can’t wait to see you. Love you Rudy, do you love me?”

“You bet, babe, count on it.” ***

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Angie could hear Nikki’s voice as soon as she opened the car door in the driveway at the kidnap house in Grant Park. Brock was the target of Nikki’s reaction to the news conference, which she had seen live on TV. “You are a genius, Brock, an oracle, a salesman’s salesman,” Nikki said from the living room chair to which she was duct taped.”

“Shut the hell up, Nikki. I mean it,” Brock snapped. The back door opened and Angie entered and passed through the kitchen into the living room.

“What makes Brock a genius?” Angie asked Nikki.

“You must have missed the TV coverage about me being kidnapped or you would have heard Brock in all his clever self, making chopped liver out of the cops. Brock was hot stuff.”

“I didn’t miss it, Nikki, I heard it on the car radio and you know as well as I do the cops seemed to think it was a joke.

Which I hope it was.”

“How about that, Brock, were you going for laughs? You heard plenty, but they were laughing at you. Your description of Nikki, setting her coat on fire at the zoo and walking away, was breathtaking.”

“Don’t listen to them, Brock,” Nikki butted in. “They’re wrong. The cops were merely puzzled and a little scared of you.

The scenario was brilliant. You’ll go down in kidnapping history as the most creative criminal in that category. Hell, you might get Best in Show.”

Spring and Summer were listening, a little trembly, while Nikki and then Angie peppered praise and ridicule at Brock. He wasn’t sure which was which. Angie walked over to Spring and Summer who were sitting on a couch near the TV. “Girls, I mean, young women, would you please explain to Brock why his proposed deal to set Nikki free was, ah, let’s say a bit slanted in favor of the police and the TV people and therefore against the better interests of all of us in the PAP movement.

Would you do that for us, please?”

“Of course,” said Summer.

“Anything for the cause, Angie,” Spring added.

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They explained to Brock there was no way the PAP people could avoid arrest under his plan, surrounded by law enforcement at the Beastly Feast. They noted that under Brock’s plan, Nikki would be rescued as she walked on stage and the kidnappers would be in handcuffs at gunpoint soon after.

Brock listened, grimaced once or twice and shook his head, but his defiance was slipping.

When Spring and Summer ended with, “Your idea was brave but doomed to failure,” all he could say was a whispered, “I thought it was creative. I thought it was cool.”

“Thanks, girls, you make PAP proud,” Angie said. She turned to Brock, slumped in his chair.

“Have a look at this, Brock. I made notes, mostly a suggestion for our demands on the next phone call. Think it over tonight.

Then we’ll talk tomorrow and you can swing into action again.

‘Cause you’re our action guy.” *** Cassie knew she faced a long evening on the air. She was her network’s lead reporter on the Nikki Z kidnapping. She hoped Jimmy could arrange his non-stop work on the same case to include an hour or two for them together, preferably at home.

Maybe order in Chinese food. She mulled over how the afterdinner portion of the evening might unfold.

How to keep the phone from ringing. Perhaps we could accidentally both take our cell phones with us into the shower. No, the tub. And we’ll eat all the rice with dinner to make sure the bowl-of-rice dry-out effect won’t spring the smart little iPhones back to life.

“Hi, Cass, you sound amused. What’s up?”

She chuckled as she answered the phone.

“I am excellent-good-excellent,” she said, imitating what her cameraman Daryl often said when he was proud of his coverage of a good story. “How about you, Copper? Is the big kidnapping case adding a few grey hairs to join your red Irish locks?”

“You know, it’s a weird case, Cass. I’m in the office getting a data dump of motives, looking for other cases of eco-whackos 85

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with similar styles. Nothing yet. In the US, at least, nobody has kidnapped anybody over a fur coat. A few cases involved ransom for some hot sneakers. And one guy in Maine held a taxidermist at gunpoint for ten hours, demanding he undo what he did to a deceased moose.”

“You might have to bring in the pro-moose man for questioning, see how he feels about sable. Hey, Jimmy, I only have a minute. Can we do dinner at home tonight and…”

“Great. Chinese work for you?”

“Wish I’d thought of that. Terrific. Can I order for both of us?”

“Sure, Cass. I’ll try to get home by nine, nine-thirty tops.”

“And, Jimmy, I have some interesting info to share. Your only hint is it’ll be strangely appropriate information, considering what’s on the menu.”

“I’ll call when I’m on the way. It sounds enticing. Tell me more.”

“Nope, but save room for dessert. No chopsticks required.” *** Detective Hagan opened his iPhone’s contacts list and thumbed down to the Nikki Kidnap group. Near the top of the screen was the information he wanted. Needed.

“Hunter Freeman – TV coach, last to see NZ?” Then came her home address and cell phone number provided by DK at Channel 4.

No answer. After five rings, he left a terse message.

“Ms. Freeman, James Hagan again, Chief of Detectives, Atlanta PD. It is urgent you phone me immediately. You have our number on your phone. I’ve called three times. We must speak with you.”

As Jimmy closed his cell phone, his assistant and confidant, Margaret, anticipated her boss’s next move and phoned the Naples Police Department.

“Good evening, I’m James Hagan, chief of detectives, Atlanta Police. I need help finding a woman we want to talk with. It involves a high-profile kidnapping here.”

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“Hold on a minute, please.”

“Hello, Chief Hagan, Detective Sam Graham here. Is this by any chance about the kidnapping of that TV anchorwoman? It’s on all the news channels, including local TV here in Florida.”

“Yes, the woman we’re looking for was last reported taking a taxi to the Atlanta airport, apparently for a flight to Fort Myers.”

Jimmy gave the Naples detective Hunter’s name, address and cell phone number.

“She’s not a suspect right now but she’s our only lead to the victim right before she was snatched.”

“Glad to help,” the Naples detective said. “We’ll send an officer to Ms. Hunter’s address and talk with her if she’s there. I assume you want her to call you?”

“Yes, please. She’s ignored all our phone messages. I think time is critical. Maybe she’s afraid.”

“No worries, Detective Hagan. We don’t scare people here in Naples. We help clarify the situation, hoping they’ll do the right thing. In this case that means call you ASAP, right?”

“One day you’ll have to show me how you do that clarity thing,” Jimmy said with a smile. “And thanks, Detective Graham.”

“Sam. Call me Sam.” “Sam. Call me Jimmy.”

87

19 ATLANTA POLICE HEADQUARTERS The four Atlanta police detectives sat in a semi-circle around Chief of Detectives James Hagan, chatting about the kidnapping of TV anchorwoman Nikki Z. The talk was in spurts of unfinished suggestions, ideas, rumors, predictions. They swapped scenarios, discarding most of them. Consensus centered on only one aspect of the case – the ransom demand that Nikki set fire to her fur coat on stage at the Beastly Feast gala. It was the damnedest demand the experienced cops ever heard.

“You have to give this pinhead credit for abduction creativity,” joked one of the detectives.

Said another, “Can you imagine the racket all the animals at the zoo would make if a big bonfire erupted down there?”

“Yeah,” said another. “What if they have to let the animals loose to keep them from being trapped as the fire spread?”

“Wow, can you see those critters spreading out round town?

I can hear citizens calling 9-1-1. ‘Help, there’s an elephant in the room. No, really. Finally, there’s an actual elephant in the room.’”

They all groaned and laughed, then immediately sat up in businesslike fashion as Jimmy tapped his own desk with a small stapler.

“All right gentlemen, let’s quickly review what we know.

Kevin?”

“No one’s seen hide nor hair of the missing woman…”

Interrupted by snickers, he said it again, “Hide nor hair. Fur coat, ransom, get it?”

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“Right, thanks for the Last Comic Standing impression,” Jimmy said with a tight smile. “Now where are we?”

“Hardly anywhere, Chief. Media are all over the story, but with more speculation than fact.”

“The bad guys have to know the ransom is, for them, suicidal.

We hope they’ll call again with something sane. We are leaning hard on our confidential informants but they’re totally blank so far. The kidnappers and Ms. Zachos, Nikki, may still be in this area and all the obvious agencies are alerted, planes, trains, busses, car rentals. Also, I believe all y’all have been briefed about this. In the kidnappers’ second call, not the one we played for the media, we demanded to see or hear Nikki on the phone – proof of life. Her captors told her to say only her name and that she’s alive and well.

“What she did say was, ‘My name is Nikki. Nikki Z-as-inzebra and I’m alive and well in my habitat.’ Then they shut her up. Kevin, Chaz, I want you two at the zoo first thing tomorrow.

Talk to the staff, everybody. Hell, talk to the animals. Look at the zebra facility, see whether there’s any chance she could be captive there. If you get anything, the slightest glimmer of a lead, we’ll comb the place.”

“Jimmy, do we need a warrant to visit the zebra habitat?”

“You’ll need more than a warrant if you annoy a zebra too much. Their vicious kick can drop a lion. What? How do I know about that? Hey, I get the National Geographic Channel. One more thing, gentlemen. We’re still looking for that TV consultant, Hunter Freeman. She apparently flew back to her home in Naples, Florida. She has not returned our calls. I contacted Naples PD and they’re sending a car to her home. Any questions?”

“Chief?” It was Chaz with his hand up and a grin on his face.

“About the victim, Nikki Z. If she is as aggressive and tough as her reputation indicates, those fruit loop kidnappers may wish they’d abducted a zebra instead.” *** When the meeting broke up, Jimmy flipped on the TV in his office to Channel 4. The anchorman was standing in front of a 89

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large video screen, filled with a ten-times-life size photo of Nikki Z. “…And here’s another Tweet from somebody claiming to be holding Nikki hostage. It reads, ‘PAP is full of crap. ZNZ, Zealots for Nikki Z will set her free.’ And one more Tweeter chimes in with this, ‘We’re the PEE people, Protecting Everyone’s Emus.

Free the Emus and We’ll Free Nikki Z.’” The newsman read two more Tweets, then went to a commercial, promising hot new Facebook comments in three minutes. Jimmy changed the channel to Global News Service and was pleased to see Cassie on camera, seated at a round table with two other GNS reporters, leading the discussion about the kidnapping.

Jimmy sent Cassie a brief text, which vibrated silently in the right pocket of her business suit jacket.

“Hit me at your next commercial break. Good update coming. Copperhead.”

Twelve minutes later, she texted.

“Have three minutes, wassup?”

“Proof of life audio by NZ on bad guy phoner,” Jimmy said on voice-to-text. “She emphasized the words ‘zebra’ and ‘habitat.’

You can report that now but keep it low key. Ta.” *** “We’re back with our extended live coverage of the kidnapping of noted TV news anchorwoman Nikki Zachos,” announced Cassie, still leading the roundtable discussion with the other GNS reporters.

“A report we can’t confirm claims a source close to the investigation says police are focusing on two words Nikki spoke during one of the kidnappers’ phone calls: ‘zebra’ and ‘habitat.’

What do we think Nikki might be trying to tell us, if anything?”

“Maybe she has a coat at home made out of zebra hair and would rather burn it than the sable one,” offered another of the panelists.

Cassie sat up and leaned in, interrupting the young man who was speaking.

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“All right, thank you all for joining us tonight. We’ll be back after a short break. You are watching a GNS special report: ABDUCTED: A TV NEWS ANCHOR IN PERIL.” *** “What a moron,” Jimmy said to his office TV set, half a grin on his face. “Where do they get these talking heads, Margaret?”

“Good question. I haven’t seen that one guy much, but Cassandra Page is a standout, don’t you think?”

“As you may have guessed, madam, you are correct. A standout is a good way to put it.” They both were laughing, trading bon mots while half-heartedly straightening paperwork on their desktops. Margaret was Jimmy’s most-trusted assistant who seemed to know everything, including details of the JimmyCassie relationship. She knew they were close when Cassie worked for Atlanta TV station Channel 3 before she joined Global News Service.

Margaret and Cassie had clicked. Margaret was an efficient, reserved widow, fifteen years older than Jimmy. Her late husband and her father were policemen. She was perhaps the bestinformed and savvy civilian in the city on how law enforcement worked in the real world. When Jimmy was promoted to chief of detectives, his boss personally chose Margaret to work with him.

Cassie told Jimmy she thought Margaret was destined to be his Svengali, minus the secret, sinister agenda.

“I’ll be at home, M,” Jimmy said, “hoping nobody will call me except the police in Naples, Florida. They’re still looking for the Hunter Freeman woman.”

“Who was at dinner with Nikki Z the night she was abducted,” she said.

Jimmy enjoyed hearing Margaret finish his sentences, but ribbed her about it.

“Margaret, do you have Ms. Freeman’s Social Security number on the tip of your tongue by any chance?”

“Better leave now, Jimmy, or Cassie may get cross and send you to bed without your supper.”

91

20 NAPLES Officer Charles Radbourn seldom saw much action in his two years on the Naples, Florida police force. If pressed to name his most exciting case, he probably would say it was the day a drunk fired four rounds into a poster of a clown face on a parked car near Handsome Harry’s restaurant on Third Street South.

When Old Hoss, as his fellow cops called young Officer Radbourn, asked the tipsy sharpshooter why he dispatched the clown poster, the groggy gunman replied, “Two good reasons. A, I hate clowns. They’re creepy. AndB, most ’em are mean drunks.”

Radbourn’s current assignment, to visit a citizen at her apartment and tell her the Atlanta police wanted to talk with her in the worst way, was also likely headed for the boring category.

“Big whoop,” Radbourn said to the steering wheel of his patrol car. He parked in the front of the three-story condo building and tried to open the glass front door but it was locked. He pressed the manager’s intercom button. No response. He went around to the sidewalk leading to the covered parking garage, about twothirds filled with cars. He climbed a service stairway to the openair second floor balcony, found the door with the name Freeman on the buzzer and pressed. No answer. He knocked again, tried the knob. Nothing.

He walked along the balcony that wrapped around the side to each condo, which featured a small patio and a door to the kitchen. It, too, was locked, but he could see part of the room 92

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because the refrigerator door was open about ten inches and the light was on. Several drawers and cabinets were open. An empty Corona bottle was on the countertop next to a turned-over martini glass. He tried the door, but it was locked. He checked his watch. Nearly eleven.

“Ms. Freeman, Ms. Freeman,” he called softly, not wanting to wake up the entire building. No answer. He clicked on his radio and gave a quick report, ending with, “Requesting backup.”

The dispatcher located the squad car nearest to the scene, got a positive response and ended with, “Advise ASAP whether there’s cause to enter the premises as an emergency.”

About eight minutes later, an NPD car arrived, no flashing lights, no siren. Officer Gemma Pepetone had heard Radbourn’s status report while driving to the scene. She walked to the rear stairway and up to Officer Radbourn who was looking in the kitchen window.

“Seems to be a mess in there, an argument, maybe, booze involved,” she said. “Can’t see the other rooms from here. I say we get clearance as emergency entry and go in. This clearly fits the rules of no-warrant entry. Somebody may by hurt, dying in there, right, Radbourn?”

He nodded and flicked on his radio. “Radbourn to base.

We’re going in.”

“Let me have a go at this kitchen door,” Pepetone said, motioning Radbourn to step aside. “Back in the day I could do this with one hand, blindfolded.”

“What day was that, Gemma?”

“High school, junior year,” she said, twisting a small metal tool the size of a small ice pick or a large toothpick. “Of course those hallway lockers were no challenge, and neither is this door.”

She gently turned the knob and opened the door, her right hand on the belt holster of her service Glock, the strap loosened.

Two steps into the room she slipped, then caught herself by grabbing the countertop around the sink. Her hand came away wet and sticky.

“Jesus,” she whispered involuntarily, then turned to Radbourn with a finger to her lips and pointed to the tile floor at her feet.

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The light from the open refrigerator was enough to see the blood Gemma was standing in, a large puddle on the floor.

Radbourn crouched, his gun in hand and swept the room.

Pepetone did the same, eyes still mostly focusing on the floor.

They saw the body of a woman at the same time, slumped sideways, one hand clutching her side, eyes open. Next to her hand, a softball-sized wound in her chest, a jagged opening with what once had been a wide blood flow, now an oozing trickle. On the floor next to the body was an ordinary kitchen knife, bloody.

“Blood up to the hilt,” Radbourn whispered. Pepetone reached to feel the side of the woman’s neck, then the wrist. No pulse. She shook her head at Radbourn, stood and waved him toward the door to the living room.

“You go through and left,” she mouthed silently. She followed him, turning right. Stealthy, gun-drawn checks of each room found no one.

“Clear, clear,” they said in rapid succession. Radbourn clutched his shoulder radio.

“Radbourn to base. Civilian down. White female, major blood loss, no apparent pulse. Send whatever you have.”

He paused, took a deep breath, trying to staunch the gag reflex. I am not going to be sick. Close my eyes, clear my head. Not giving in.

Pepetone opened her radio and identified herself. “We need the Crime Scene Unit and the Medical Examiner. This vic has about bled out. No sign of anyone else in the apartment but somebody has ransacked the place.”

“Detective Sam Graham will be in charge of the scene. He’s en route.”

“Base, tell the people to enter by the back door off the second floor balcony. It’s open and unlocked.”

Gemma figured this bloody crime may have been Radbourn’s first homicide, and she was sympathetic to his reaction. She was in her sixth year on the force and had been assigned to only one other killing, an elderly man who shot his wife with a revolver, then killed himself.

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It was disturbing, them lying there in a double bed like that, but it wasn’t this gory and not as violent. Two shots, bam, bam.

Over. That was an easy one and almost boring, no mystery. But this? In Naples? Hardly ever.

“Old Hoss, how about you go out front and meet Detective Graham and the M.E.” “Good idea, Gemma, I’ll bring ’em up soon as they get here.”

He turned to go down the back stairs. “And, Gemma, thanks.”

95

21 MIDTOWN ATLANTA Detective Jimmy Hagan and Cassandra Page became lovers about three years ago. Early in those heady, sparkly days, Cassie confided to Jimmy that she fell in love with him before she knew much about him. Jimmy then confided that he found way back then that she often seemed more ready for sex and enjoyed it more after she scored a big news scoop. In short, getting a major exclusive on big breaking news usually led to what this cop and this reporter called their own private “happy ending.”

Cassie thought about that as she walked into their condo after her evening of leading Global News Service coverage of the Nikki Z kidnapping. The Chinese food Jimmy ordered when he made it home an hour earlier rested unopened on the kitchen counter. The bottle of Burrowing Owl Cabernet he uncorked before Cassie arrived could take its time breathing.

Luckily for Jimmy, Cassie’s style of lovemaking was nothing like her cool but tough style of TV news reporting. On the air, her pulse was normal, but her persona captivated many viewers.

Her mahogany complexion, beckoning eyes and her sculptured features were magnetic.

In bed, however, or some other suitably adjusted place, Cassie could cavort excitedly, leading her lover with leaps and bounds.

She was part Cirque du Soleil and, if absolutely necessary, part Barnum & Bailey.

When Cassie and Jimmy were sexually sated, their sex storm abated, he poured the wine and she raised her glass in a toast.

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Jimmy reached for his glass while blowing Cassie an exaggerated air kiss and his cell phone sounded. It was DK Jack at Channel 4.

“Detective, sorry for calling this late but Otis thinks the TV station should have an updated news briefing for all media every couple of hours through the day. What do you think?”

“Fine, DK. Maybe it will get the kidnappers off their butts and let us work with them. Another thing. Do you have any reason to believe Nikki’s abduction is connected with some program your station broadcasts? Aside from the fur coat issue? No? Have you all considered putting up a reward, cash, for Nikki’s safe return?”

“No we haven’t. Should we?” DK asked. “Would you do that, the police I mean, offer a reward?”

“No, “Jimmy replied. “The kidnappers haven’t asked for money anyway. Still, we need something to remind the public of Nikki’s real danger.”

“True, Jimmy,” DK said. “But what the hell? Is this open season on our female news people? I mean, first, Nikki Z is violently snatched off the street and held for ransom. Then this Hunter Freeman missing-in-action thing. Who’s next, Barbara Walters?”

“Is she still…”

“Doesn’t matter, Jimmy, you know what I mean.”

“Easy, DK, easy,” Jimmy said. “You’re tired. Me, too. Let’s schedule a media briefing tomorrow morning at the TV station.

Maybe by then we’ll have found Ms. Freeman.”

“Suits me. Nine o’clock, Jimmy?”

“Gosh, DK,” Jimmy said with a fake sigh. “We’ll TRY to pry it into our busy, crime-fighting schedule.” They both chuckled and ended the call.

“Back to you, Wonder Woman,” Jimmy said to Cassie. “What is your Pulitzer Prize scoop? The mood you’re in, I know you must have one. Is it one I helped you get?l “Of course,” Cassie said, “if you count the whole Nikki Z story. It’s a smash. But I’m getting information from a source at Channel 4 almost equally sensational, and it might have a connection to the kidnapping.”

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“Cassie, I’d settle for a Nikki Z bobblehead doll giveaway contest if it brought us a good lead on the kidnappers.” *** “You’re a popular guy tonight, Jimmy,” Cassie said. “Is everybody calling you because you’re the big chief detective dude, or are the Chippendales calling you because they’re a hunk short?”

Jimmy opened his phone before he stopped laughing and said, “Hagan here.”

“Hello, Detective, this is Sam Graham, Naples PD.” He was not laughing. “I’m afraid your abduction case is becoming more complicated. We have a homicide victim in an apartment here and we’re pretty sure she’s Hunter Freeman, the woman you’ve been trying to reach.”

Jimmy put his phone on speaker and motioned for Cassie to listen in.

“We found a deceased woman in the home of the person you’ve been looking for,” Sam said. “Hunter Freeman. Our guys found her Facebook page and they’re ninety-five percent sure it’s her.”

“Sounds like it, Sam. I know it’s early, but does anything jump out at you about the crime scene? It’s a condo, right?”

“Yeah, second floor, nice building in a usually safe neighborhood. The M.E. thinks the killer must have been really pissed off, the way he slashed and gashed the vic. At least we’re assuming the killer is a he. Also the apartment has been tossed.

Could be a burglary, no computer, no cell phone, a couple of drawers yanked open and empty, books pulled off shelves, some light furniture overturned. But that could all be fake, an angry guy trying to make it look like the woman surprised a burglar who panicked and stabbed her six or seven times.”

“Does local media in Naples know about this yet?” Jimmy asked.

“Not officially, but we’ll put out a release within the hour. No way to keep this quiet, with people awakened by all the commotion 98

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calling 9-1-1. Hell, It may be on YouTube or LoveKiller.com by now.”

“Sam, any chance your crime scene photographer could email me a couple of photos of the dead woman, head and shoulders and full body? People here in Atlanta could ID her.”

“Sure thing. I’ll call you again in an hour or two.”

The detectives traded email addresses and then went back to work. *** Before Jimmy finished talking with Detective Graham in Naples, Cassie was on her cell phone to the Global News Service’s newsroom.

“Here’s a potentially explosive story,” Cassie said to the editor-in-charge. “GNS has learned police in Naples, Florida have found the body of a woman, an apparent murder victim, possibly connected to the kidnapping of a TV anchorwoman in Atlanta, Georgia. The dead woman is tentatively identified as Hunter Freeman…”

“I recorded what you said, Cassie, and will get it on air pronto,” Bernie said.

“I’m coming in now and we’ll do it live with more info,” Cassie told the editor. “I hope to have a positive ID on the dead woman by then. Meanwhile, if you can, find me a photo of her, a woman named Hunter Freeman, a TV talent consultant who lived in Naples, Florida. She might have been the last person to see Nikki Z before she was abducted.”

Cassie turned to Jimmy, who was fiddling with his smart phone. “What’d I miss?” she asked.

“The Naples detective, Sam, emailed me a photo of the murder vic and I need to send it to DK right away. He’ll know whether it’s Hunter Freeman.”

Cassie looked at the photo.

“Oh, Jimmy, even I can tell that’s not the work of a surprised burglar,” Cassie said. She leaned in and studied the wide, roughedged wounds on and in Hunter’s chest.

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“It looks angry, brutal, Jimmy. I gotta run, going live as soon as I get to the studio. Love ya’.”

Jimmy watched her go, then looked closely at the photos.

Her body position, I don’t know, something, somehow, she looks surprised at what was happening to her.”

DK answered his home phone on the third ring.

“It’s Jimmy. Detective Hagan.”

“Oh, hey, Jimmy, what’s up?”

“You know we’ve been looking for that consultant, Ms. Freeman. I think we found her. Rather police in Naples did. At our request they went to her condo and found a woman on the floor, stabbed to death. We need you to ID her from Naples PD crime scene pictures.”

“This is screwed up, Jimmy, screwed up….”

“I know, I know. I’m emailing the pictures now.”

A minute later, DK’s phone sounded. He pushed the email icon and up came the first photo, the headshot, up close.

DK made a gasping sound as though he was coughing and taking in air at the same time.

“That’s…it looks like Hunter…Damn, Jimmy, couldn’t those cops at least close her eyes?”

“Take it easy, DK, they have to photo the scene as is, you know that.” You TV news people ought to be used to blood and guts stuff; Lord knows you put enough of it on the air. I guess when it’s personal, it’s different.

“Tell you what, DK. I have work to do on this end and we have a little time to get more details. I’ll ask Naples PD to contact you directly. I’m sorry about this, DK.”

100

22 ATLANTA Brock woke up before the alarm on his iPhone buzzed at seven.

I guess I’m up for the day. Can’t sleep worth a damn anyway.

He padded across the hall to the room where Nikki was captive to make sure she was still there, taped to the bed. She was, sleeping on her side in a semi-fetal position. Brock tiptoed into the kitchen, hoping to find coffee. The Seasons, as he referred to the Spring and Summer sisters, insisted on green tea, coconut water and shade-grown decaf, period. They were taking the earth-hugger movement too far, Brock decided The morning before, a grumpy, caffeine-deprived Brock lashed out at the two girls. “I don’t get it. You make up stupid rules as though a cup of real coffee would be a sin yet you’re kidnapping a woman at gunpoint.”

“It’ll be fine, Brock,” Spring said. “You have your wine and besides, this’ll all be over in a few days.”

“We should have rented a hideout house closer to a Starbucks,” Brock said. This morning he decided not to waste his breath. He flopped into a chair and flipped on the TV, tuned to GNS from the night before. The Start the Day business news program was almost over, showing graphics of the overnight futures markets, accompanied by timpani drums and cellos.

Brock was half-watching, thinking about the extortion demands he would make in a phone call later to the TV station.

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Suddenly he bolted upright as his brain processed what the TV set was telling him.

“This is a Global News Service breaking news alert,” said the GNS anchorman. “GNS has learned authorities have identified the body of a young woman, an apparent murder victim, found slaughtered in her apartment in Naples, Florida. They say she possibly was connected to the kidnapping of a TV anchorwoman in Atlanta…”

“The dead woman found slain in her Naples apartment is tentatively identified as Hunter Freeman….”

“Angie, girls, get in here, the living room,” Brock shouted.

“And bring Nikki in here too.” Brock’s mind raced.

What is this about? Naples, Florida? Who the hell is that woman and how is she connected? Is this a ploy by the cops to scare us? Is Nikki…?

“In here, in here,” he shouted again. “Listen.”

Angie and The Seasons watched TV as Cassie reported Hunter was wanted by Atlanta Police.

“They say she may have been the last person to see Nikki before the kidnapping.

“I can report that the night of the abduction,” Cassie went on, “I was at the Potenza restaurant in Atlanta and saw Nikki leaving there. Restaurant staffers told police Nikki had dinner with a woman that same night. Naples police went to the victim’s apartment last night after a request by Atlanta PD. They believed Hunter flew home to Naples after a business trip to Atlanta.”

Nikki was stunned into silence, tears in her eyes that could not drown the fear there. She stared at the TV, bile in her throat, anger in her heart.

“Live on the phone with me now is DK Jack, news director of Channel 4 here in Atlanta where Nikki Zachos was, IS, a popular news anchor. Mr. Jack, tell us the latest.”

“It’s still sketchy,” DK said to Cassie. “Right now we don’t know who did it or why. We at Channel 4 are grieving…”

Brock turned down the volume and faced his kidnap team and Nikki.

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“Let me hear it right now, ladies. This is serious. If you don’t tell me all you know, you’ll be sorry. Angie. Talk to me. Girls, you too.”

“Brock, I have no idea,” Angie said. “I don’t know her, never heard of her.”

“Gosh, Brock,” Summer asked, voice trembling, “Are the cops going to think we killed that lady?”

“And what about Nikki now?” Spring asked, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her bathrobe.

Nikki shouted over the others, “Yeah, what about me, you scatterbrains? And you, Brock, you ham-handed fool, you got somebody killed, didn’t you? Who’s next, Brockie, me? You better give up and let me go before a cop puts a bullet in your pathetic pea brain.”

“Shut up, Nikki,” Brock snapped. “Shut up. All of you. Be quiet. Angie, get me the notes you made for the call to the police and the TV people.” *** Every aspect of the Nikki abduction case sped up when word of the murder in Florida spread at Channel 4 and on to other Atlanta media. When the phone rang in DK’s Channel 4 office, police technicians were ready to record. Detective Jimmy Hagan was there too, along with DK, a news producer and the Channel 4 reporter assigned to the story.

“Good morning,” said DK slowly. “Is this the man from PAP?” “Yes,” Brock said, quickly. “First, we know nothing about the murder of that woman in Florida. There’s no connection. Do not waste my time on it.”

“Mr. Pap, how do we know you’re telling the truth?” DK asked. “The word of a kidnapper isn’t what it used to be in the good old days, do you think?”

“Enough,” Brock said. “If you are to get Ms. Nikki back unharmed, here’s what must happen.” Brock calmed a bit.

“She must renounce the use of animal fur in making coats and other fur apparel once and for all. She must lead a boycott against fur clothing manufacturers. She must record TV and 103

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radio announcements urging people to follow her lead in the anti-fur movement. All Atlanta TV stations and networks must agree to broadcast those messages. TV stations and Zoo Atlanta must put up posters and banners bearing the PAP official slogan, No More Fur or No More Nikki. A member of the media or an official of Zoo Atlanta must agree to burn Ms. Nikki’s sable coat on stage at the upcoming Beastly Feast event. Ms. Nikki then will be released unharmed. She will be a hero, welcome to join the People Are the Problem community.”

“Mr. Pap, let’s pretend we would consider accepting your proposal. First, you have the coat, not us. A problem?”

“No, Mr. DK. And stop calling me Pap. We will arrange to get you the coat. And one more thing. We want immunity for any and all alleged crimes for setting Nikki free.”

“It would take some doing, Mr. Pap,” DK said. “Do you know who wants you? Here are a few. Atlanta Police, Georgia state law enforcement, the FBI, authorities in Florida and the long arm of the fur apparel industry. That’s a tough crowd.”

“What? I told you we know nothing about that murder in Florida. Do we have a deal or not?”

“We’ll need a little time to put this together, Pap, and if you could be a bit more flexible…’

“HAY-UP” came a cry from outside the kidnap house. “HAYUP HAY-UP.” “Dammit,” Brock said, pressing mute on his cell phone.

“Bloody peacocks,” he seethed. Several deep breaths later, he went back to the call.

“Sorry about that. Our neighbors’ kids. It’s like that all day.

As I was saying, I’ll call again in twelve hours. That’s about as long as we can stand having Nikki around. She’s a pain in the ass.”

Brock ended the call and made a note to shoot the Zoo Atlanta peacocks at his first opportunity.

“Ms. Nikki, do you like the sound of our plan?”

Nikki was almost serene. “You are something special, Brock, a real attention getter. There is something off about you. You’re not right in the head. You are out of touch with the real world.

I’ll bet you couldn’t make change for a dollar without consulting your accountant and your butler. For example, take your plan for 104

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burning my coat. It is lame, feeble. Why not ask for a bunch of money and then go out and buy up all the fur coats in the world and have the biggest bonfire on the planet?”

“Nikki, you think you’re so smart and important. Let me give you something to think about, to take your mind off your troubles.”

Brock turned to Angie. “Go get me Nikki’s monster sable coat and some scissors if you can find any. Maybe in a kitchen drawer.”

“Now what, Brock, you brainiac?” Nikki asked. “What brilliant idea lurks in your pinhead?”

“A little something to remember you by, long after your coat is a pile of smoked sable,” Brock said, holding the coat by the left sleeve.

“A snip here, a snip there…” he said, cutting through the sleeve below the shoulder. “Snip snip, Nikki. Oooo, this must be real sable, soft, supple, sexy, snip, snip and voila.”

The coat crumpled to the floor, with Brock holding the sleeve aloft. “What do you think, girls, should we make this sable sleeve our official PAP flag?”

Nikki’s eyes bulged and reddened. She coiled in the chair, ignoring that her ankle was duct-taped to it. She lunged at Brock, screaming epithets he never learned in his country club locker rooms. She went for Brock’s throat, but the tape binding her ankle stopped her. She slammed to the floor; one leg bent the wrong way behind her torso. Brock and the three women could hear the popping sounds as the ankle twisted into an ugly position. Nikki writhed on the floor, moaning and crying, trying to move, but the pain of a severe sprain was too much. Spring and Summer knelt beside her.

“I don’t know what to do, Brock,” said Summer. “She’s hurt bad, really bad.”

“Oh, leave her alone.” Brock replied. “What a crybaby. She’ll be her loud, boorish self in a day or two.”

Then Brock leaned down until his face was almost touching Nikki’s.

“Boohoo, Nikki, boo-freakin’ hoo.”

105

23 NAPLES Afraid he would miss something, Rudy held the TV remote in both hands, straight out, changing channels every ten or fifteen seconds.

All the TV and radio stations in Naples were going wall to wall with coverage of the juiciest major crime story there in years. The drama was classic - a beautiful young woman, a former local TV personality, slain in gruesome fashion. The chance the murder was connected to the abduction of another TV star in Atlanta was a bonus.

Questions and answers throbbed through Rudy’s brain.

Did I screw up in trashing her apartment to look like a random robbery? No, I think I did a good job. I took the laptop and cell phone in the roller tote. Any fingerprints left on, what, the knife, the front door? The sink? Wiped off the knife pretty good. Sink and counter too. Yeah. Also took some jewelry and a watch. What about the charity thing? Talked to everybody, especially Agatha, and she knew I skipped outa there for a while. Is she cool with that? Maybe she won’t put two and two together. Need to watch her. But who’s she gonna tell? She thinks maybe I was out cheating on Hunter, getting a quickie elsewhere. Great idea in theory, but hell, no time for that right now.

Rudy halted his channel-changing.

“As we’ve been reporting for several hours, we’re in mourning here at WHUP-TV,” a somber twenty-something anchorman said.

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Rudy put down the remote and stared at the imposing, twoyear-old glamour shot of Hunter filling the screen behind the announcer. The photo was from the time she was a reporter and anchor at the station. He watched the report, a montage of clips from Hunter on TV. Hunter at a church, Hunter at a five-car pileup on the Tamiami Trail, Hunter in a hurricane and more. The last one showed her in a trench coat, standing in front of Naples City Hall, a microphone in her right hand, looking concerned, but ending with a friendly toss of her blond hair. Rudy knew that mannerism. He hit the replay button on the remote and the last few seconds played again. And one more time, in slow motion.

He was surprised at his involuntary physical reaction and, after another replay, shaking his head, went back to the live coverage.

I’ll miss that, for sure. Life goes on. Or not.

A few channels later, Rudy stopped on Global News Service.

Its coverage of Hunter’s death seemed focused on how and why Hunter may have been involved in Nikki’s kidnapping. He liked that.

This could work in delaying the time until we have to let Nikki go. The Atlanta cops will never meet Brock’s hare-brained demands.

At least I hope not. I need to keep an eye on Brock and Angie, keep them focused, motivated, clueless. They can’t know that my private slogan for this caper is, “I’m not keen if the prize ain’t green.”

While Rudy was riveted to TV coverage of Nikki’s kidnapping, the murder of Hunter and the effort to link the two, another nagging notion tugged for his attention. He needed a game. *** “Paulie, hey this is Rudy. Yeah, good, and you?”

Rudy put the TV on mute, talked on his cell to one of the men from the friendly poker gang at the Beach Club, trying not to show the creeping anxiety he needed to knock down.

“I’m feeling lucky today, Paulie, and I want to branch out a little. My guy, yeah, the arranger, as we call him, is on a cruise, can you believe that? I need another place to make a play or two.

Online is fine but a hot table is better. No, not at the Beach Club.

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Hotter. I need a score and a bit more, know what I mean? Good, make the call and let me know time and place. Oh, and Paulie, a good word about me from you wouldn’t hurt.”

“You bet, Rudy, but do your pals at the retired guys’ card table a favor. Save a little of your score tonight to lose to us tomorrow in the cheap seats at the Beach Club.”

Rudy felt better as he clicked off the call. He always came alive when a big win was in sight, like when an athlete when he gets into the zone. Everything is on autopilot. All good.

He went to the kitchen and made a strong vodka and orange juice. Standing at the sink, he took a swig and looked out the window at the grass in the small back yard. Sizeable patches were turning brown.

I need to get someone to water the lawn and stuff. And if things keep looking up, maybe I’ll get a full-time yard guy.

He laughed out loud, raised his glass and toasted himself. To me. Hell, maybe I’ll go crazy and get a puppy.

Rudy unlatched both halves of the Dutch door and stepped into the yard. He smiled, recalling how often his mother endured good-natured teasing from friends and others about using a Dutch door in Florida. They said things like, “This probably is the only Dutch door in the state,” and “Why a Dutch door? Are you trying to keep the farm animals out?”

Mom would say, “It lets in fresh air but keeps the iguanas out.”

Dad put the Dutch door to good use, too. Mom would yell at him from the dining room, “You better not be smoking those cigars in the house again” and Dad could answer honestly that he wasn’t because, technically, he was holding his favorite Cohiba at arm’s length through the open half of the door.

Rudy stayed out there a while, thinking of his parents.

Seems like a million years ago. They did okay in life, I guess.

Lucky for me they died when they did and left me this house.

Perfect, not flashy, doesn’t get noticed, wedged in between the newer, pricey palaces on this street. Great zip code, too. Best thing of all, they left it to me already paid for. Free and clear. Yeah, it’s all working for me now.

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Rudy still heard the TV in the house but couldn’t see it, so he didn’t notice a familiar face that flashed across the TV screen.

Amidst more photos of Hunter, “in happier times” as a TV reporter noted, a man in a tux stood at Hunter’s side, whispering in her ear. It was her date at a charity ball for the Collier County Library, Rudy. *** While Rudy never saw himself with Hunter on the TV file footage, thousands of other people did, including Naples PD Detective Sam Graham, who immediately phoned the Detective Division main number.

“Yes, the name is Rudy Becker or Decker or something like that,” Sam told the detective on duty. “If you can’t find his address with Google, check the county tax rolls. Go ring his doorbell and have a chat, his whereabouts yesterday and all that. And take a uniform officer with you. Maybe that youngster, Radbourn, if he’s around. He was first at the murder scene yesterday.”

By this point, most Naples police officers who were not on a higher priority call were looking for and talking with people who knew Hunter Freeman. Her neighbors in the condo building crowded the lobby and the porte cochère, some videoing each other with their phones, others talking animatedly with police officer Gemma Pepetone and then with anybody offering a microphone and a TV camera.

The information police gathered from the other tenants there boiled down to a few “facts:” Hunter was a quiet young woman who apparently traveled several days a week. She seemed to have one regular man friend and they spent good times together, “noisy, don’t you know.” They often were seen leaving her place “dressed to the nines,” the man driving a shiny red BMW and her “with a bosom as open as his convertible with the top down.”

Nobody had seen any strangers around the building lately.

Several neighbors thought Hunter was her last name.

Other officers combed websites of Naples society magazines and charitable organizations’ publications, looking for leads 109

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to people whose galas and other events might have included Hunter. They checked Facebook pages, Instagram postings and some obscure websites, such as www.lifeisawasteofspace.com, which was mess was a waste of time, but Hunter’s Facebook page was covered with photos of her with small groups of women.

The only photos of Hunter with a man were five or six with Rudy at charity balls, auctions, a wine festival and a golf tournament.

The overall impression was Rudy and Hunter were the town’s champagne-toasting, celebrity-boasting, good cause boosting, all around shiny couple. *** As Rudy left the back yard and returned to the house, his cell phone sounded. He looked at the display. It was his poker pal.

“Paulie, my man, did you find me a steal of a poker game for tonight? Get it, steal of a…anyway, what’s the play? Did I see what? Slow down, Paulie, what video, channel what...me?

You saw me on TV with Hunter? How long ago? A couple of minutes?”

Rudy almost swallowed the ice in his vodka. “What do you mean they’re interviewing people…no, nobody has called me.

Yeah, I dated Hunter now and then, but we’re friends-friends, you know? Charity gala dates. No, steady? Did we go steady?

What does that mean anymore, Paulie?”

The anxious ache was sneaking back into his nervous system again.

I’m gonna shake this right now. Nothing to fear, nobody to answer to. Can’t let this ruin my good mood. The cure’s easy. I need to get into that chair, King Rudy of the poker roundtable, the rush of being in control, sweeping in the chips and …

“Okay, Paulie, where’s the action tonight? Seriously, where?”

“It’s good, perfect,” Paulie said. “High stakes, low profile, like that. But hell, Rudy, don’t ya think you oughta lay off the big play for tonight?”

Rudy’s eager meter jumped forward. He turned the TV volume down to zero. The video showed Hunter again, but Rudy looked away.

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“Paulie, where is the game? Forget everything else right now.

I am.”

Paulie didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said softly, “The game’s at Fawlty Towers…”

“What? Where’s that, Paulie, come on.”

“It’s Faulkner Towers on Avondale. I swear. Only kiddin’ around. Calm down. You sound like, like, let’s say you sound like you really need a drink. Chill out.”

“Right, Paulie, a drink. I need a drink all right, a Royal Flush on the rocks.”

111

24 NAPLES Rudy was playing with his money when the doorbell rang.

Handling currency for him was like applause for a diva or a red carpet to a starlet. He shoved a cache of cash from the open wall safe into a black, stingray leather attaché case and tossed it into the back of his bedroom clothes closet.

He rubbed his eyes vigorously while walking to the living room. He could see enough through the plantation shutters on the front door to realize that two men he didn’t know were out there. One man wore a seersucker sport coat. The other was in a Naples Police Department uniform.

“Come in, gentlemen. I guess I knew you’d be coming, but I am sort of paralyzed right now, if you know what I mean.”

“Mr. Decker, right, Rudy Decker?” asked the detective. Rudy nodded, affecting a nasal sniffling sound.

“This is Officer Radbourn and I’m Detective Garver. Can we have a few moments of your time?”

Rudy waved them into the living room, motioned them to two upholstered chairs with cane armrests and feet and then sat on the edge of a two-seater couch.

“How well did you know Ms. Freeman, Mr. Decker?” the detective asked.

“We’ve been close for about… I’m not thinking clearly right now, I guess over a year, maybe a little more. And…how did this happen to her?” He was still dry-eyed, but wincing, looking down, blinking.

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“When’s the last time you saw Ms. Freeman and where were you at that time?”

“We were supposed to attend a charity thing at the Naples Zoo last night, but she never came home. I phoned her a couple of times, but she didn’t call back. I assumed she was delayed in Atlanta. I went to the gala solo. I phoned her cell again when I made it home from the party. No answer. I went to bed. Then, this morning…” He choked up, shook his head, squeezed the bridge of his nose and went quiet.

“Can anyone vouch for you having been at the benefit party the whole evening?”

“I hope so,” Rudy answered with a nervous laugh. “Of course folks get pretty wasted at these events. Ya never know. But, yeah, I talked with the bartenders and some of the animal attendants and trainers who were there for the party. I also talked with the animals,” Rudy said, laughing at his own fast-talking levity. “Yep, a baboon and a rhino, but if you interview them, be careful. The baboon is a chatty rascal, and the rhino has …”

Detective Garver interrupted, noticing Rudy was starting to sweat.

“Mr. Decker, please. Sir, do you really want Officer Radbourn and me to leave here thinking you are an insensitive jerk who seems to be losing it? No? Then calm down. We need names, humans, who can corroborate your alibi at the zoo. And, Mr. Decker, you did not answer my question as to when and where you last saw Ms. Freeman.”

Rudy sighed heavily, shoulders slumped. “I guess it was a week ago, at her place here. She was in town between consulting trips.”

“Did you have any arguments or, other troubles that time?”

“No, see, you don’t understand. Hunter and I were close, I guess you’d say, but we weren’t engaged or anything. We attended some civic events together. It was convenient. We both liked to party and play and help raise money for good causes. We both dated other people once in a while. At least I did. Hunter never talked about any other boyfriends, but…” Another heavy sigh, another eye rub.

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“Mr. Decker, we may need to talk with you again about all this. If you plan to leave town in the near future, let us know first.”

“Yes, but I…” “Mr. Decker. Are we clear? We are not asking you. If you plan to leave this area soon, let us know first. Here’s my card. Have a nice day.”

Rudy watched the policemen as they drove away. He was torn between angst about the cops’ visit and exuberance over the poker game that evening. He walked into the kitchen and made a four-finger-sized bourbon on the rocks to tame the post-police worries.

YES, that’s good riddance to those two jerks!

He repeated the bourbon solution, this time to calm the case of pre-poker jitters.

I’m usually Mr. Cool before a high stakes game. It’s the money that matters.

He then went back to his bedroom and looked at the money again. It was an elixir, his frantic and manic behavior fading at the sight, the smell, the touch of the bills.

Forty thousand. Sweet. If I can balloon this into, say, a hundred large, it’ll be a good week.

He fastened the latch on the attaché case and put it into the wall safe.

I’ll see you again at the magic table tonight, my loyal greenback friends. And here’s another case for bringing home all the new big bucks friends we’re going to meet tonight at the, what did Paulie call it? Oh yeah, Fawlty Towers. Hilarious.

Rudy could hardly wait for the game to begin. Paulie had said they would begin play promptly at six. Rudy began thinking of ways to fill the action gap.

A Publix supermarket was less than a mile away, a haven, a home away from home for people who like to play the numbers now and then. The Florida Lottery kiosk was near the front door.

He smiled at the clerk who took his cash and handed over the small stack of Scratch-Off cards.

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“Good luck,” she said, barely moving her lips. Rudy stepped aside, walked to a nearby shelf of real estate brochures, brushed them aside and began scratching off the latex covering on the tickets. His first few were ten-dollar games with a chance to win a two million dollar jackpot. Zero. He upgraded to twenty-five dollar tickets, Gold Rush Tripler and Monopoly Millionaire.

Same result.

I only need one win to break the curse and to set up my success this evening.

He cut back to the one-dollar scratch-off tickets called Sand Dollars. For Rudy it was a sand trap. Nothing.

This is good, man, no, it really is. It’s sort of a palate cleanser for the action tonight. The cobwebs will be gone and the losing streak will be history.

Rudy picked up a few bananas, a quart of two percent milk and a box of Honey Nut Cheerios and headed for the checkout.

He almost always qualified for the Ten Items line. As he neared the exit, he paused, then pivoted back to the lottery kiosk and bought a hundred dollars in Cash3 lottery tickets for the next seven days.

“Straight, please, with the numbers 8-8-8.”

Feeling better, he headed out the door.

No matter whether I lose it all tonight, I’ll have food for breakfast and, if my Asian friends in Atlanta are correct, the big lucky eights will come through by the weekend.

115

25 ATLANTA Nikki Z’s ankle began to swell long before she stopped yelling at Brock and at the pain of the sprain, or the fracture. It overwhelmed her. For a second, she hallucinated that her ankle was breaking away from her leg.

“Girls, please, help me, call 9-1-1. I need help!” Nikki pleaded. Not demanding, not commanding – begging. Spring cried, mostly out of fear. Angie started to berate Brock for his earlier nasty outburst at Nikki, but he interrupted her, jabbing at her with his right hand but stopping short of her nose.

“Not a word out of you, Angie, I mean it,” Brock said.

Nikki tested the ankle with a slight effort to move it, but she fell back, thinking she might pass out.

“No 9-1-1. Are you nuts?” Brock was addressing the girls in a superior way, unintentionally sending a strong signal he was frightened, with no clue what to do.

“No one is coming into this house. Now listen to me,” Brock said, trying to clench his teeth to make his jaw muscles move.

He wasn’t sure whether he first saw that done by John Wayne or Matthew McConaughey, but he liked it.

“The only person who will leave this house now is Angie,” he said, leaning closer to her face. “And you will go right now. First, take that burner phone I used and lose it, down a sewer drain or something. Next, hit the Walgreen’s about a mile from here, up near Inman Park. Get some stuff, painkiller, aspirin, antiseptic 116

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spray, whatever, for Nikki. Get a bag of ice too. That ought to help. She’ll be fine. Then get your butt back here. Are we clear?”

“No, not quite,” said Summer, as her sister Spring nodded agreement, her eyes still damp from crying.

“What, Summer, what is it?” Brock demanded. “Let’s hear it.”

“Yeah, hurry, Summer, I’m dying here.” Whispered Nikki, her pain and anger tamping down her normally forceful voice to a whisper.

Summer looked at Nikki, then back at Brock.

“What if her ankle is broken? We really must get a doctor right away…”

“Sorry, no can do,” Brock said. “Besides, broken or not, she’ll not need that foot for a while anyway. End of conversation.”

Angie left the room to get her coat. When she came back, the others were watching TV, the GNS coverage of the murder in Naples. Angie barely glanced at it, then stopped and leaned in. The video from Naples, now picked up by TV stations everywhere, showed Hunter Freeman, looking hot and cool and at ease on the arm of Rudy Decker. He was whispering in her ear as they walked through some tony society bash. *** “Rudy, you better pick up you sonofabitch.”

Angie was driving in the car. If she were standing up she would have been reeling at seeing Rudy with the woman who was murdered, the woman police said may be connected to the kidnapping of Nikki Z. Angie on the burner phone called Rudy’s cell. He answered on the fourth ring, a surprise to Angie, who almost always had to leave a message.

“Angie, sweetheart, great to hear from you.”

She interrupted, talking a mile a minute. “Rudy, what were you doing with that, that woman, the blonde with the fire engine lipstick, draped over your arm like a quilt, who is that, who is that, where were you, where were you going, is she your Naples me? Tell me, Rudy, tell me. Tell me!”

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“No no no, calm down, Angie, honey. I’m sorry, it’s all a misunderstanding. I barely know her. No lie. We do some charity projects together, Angie. She’s like a sister to me, baby. It’s not what you think. Ask anybody. Soon you’ll come down and you’ll see for yourself. And I can show you off as my real deal, Angie.

Would that be good, darling?”

Angie wept, driving slowly to the drug store.

“Rudy, can you get me out of this Nikki Z thing? I know my job is to watch Brock, but he is a monster and he treats me badly and I’m trying to do what you said, keep an eye on him, but Rudy, sweetie, I can’t…”

“It’s almost over, Angie, I promise. We won’t need Brock much longer and the plan will work fine. Trust me, babe.”

“I do, Rudy, I do, but, sweetheart, I want to be the girl with you at your fundraisers. I want to get the heck outa my dreary job with all the animal huggers. I want to be your wi.. uh, person now.”

“Me too, Angie, and it will happen. We’re a team, baby, a team. Love you, but I have to go now. Hang in there, Angie, bye babe.”

Angie clicked off when she realized he already had. She immediately remembered she had forgotten to tell Rudy about Nikki’s injury and Brock’s antics with the coat. She redialed his cell, but he didn’t pick up. She didn’t leave a message, but she was starting to get his.

118

26 NORTH GEORGIA The sign on a porch railing of the small frame house was hard to miss, bold red words on a black background: Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures.

The Gary part was Gary Shanklin, a forty-year-old selfdescribed “Man of the Mountains.” He was born and raised in the house where he inherited his mother’s love of the mountains and his father’s disdain for authority.

From childhood, Gary saw No Trespassing signs as invitations and every railroad crossing as a dare. In school, he made terrible grades, not because he was dumb, but because he was bored. What he liked, he loved. What he disliked, he ridiculed or destroyed. Gary challenged his teachers now and then but usually embarrassed them by solving the problem or resolving the issue before they did. Teachers wrote “Doesn’t play well with others” so often on his report cards they might as well have tattooed the censure on his forehead.

It was no surprise, then, that Gary seldom held any job for long after he dropped out of school in tenth grade. Bosses annoyed him and co-workers were wary. He wandered into driving a truck for a living and then tried several small businesses, hoping one might work. Four years ago, one did.

His Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures offered tourists, school day trippers, hunters, hikers, bikers, bird watchers and others a menu of fun, from hosting s’mores and beers around a campfire to guiding weekenders eager to hunt animals or catch 119

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fish. Whether they wanted to eat on the spot what they caught or killed or have them mounted for memories, Gary usually made enough money from them to get by and then some.

Tonight, he was not pampering tourists or would-be woodsmen. He and his younger brother, Earl, looked to make a quick, off-the-books profit in the off-season, some tax-free cash.

Earl was antsy about the plan. Sometimes he heard Gary and other men talk of the scheme as an easy way to make money, but this was Earl’s first ride-a-long. Gary always considered it an adults-only exercise, and, while he was grown physically, Earl’s mind often was elsewhere. He could be a good lookout, though, letting Gary concentrate on the job at hand. As Gary drove his pickup truck slowly along an overgrown path through the woods, Earl fiddled with the dials on a portable radio.

“What if we get caught, Gary? What if some ranger comes along?”

“I’ve a story all worked out if that happens, but it won’t.

Besides, if anyone asks, we are simply harvesting a renewable resource, right, Earl?”

“I guess. Yeah, renewable. Like a driver’s license. Renewable.”

An electronic beep startled Earl, but Gary smiled. “There’s the collar.” Gary said. “Turn it up a bit.”

As he drove deeper into the brush, the beep was louder, closer.

“It’s not moving. That’s good.”

“How’d the beep thing get on there?” Earl asked.

“The wildlife guys attach them on collars. Then they know where the critters are and where they go.” Gary slowed the truck, touched the brakes and stopped.

“It’s probably a female, maybe in a deep sleep.” Gary was whispering as both men got out of the truck. Gary unholstered a .357 magnum, then handed Earl a high-powered flashlight.

“We should be within about forty feet. Quietly, quietly.”

They walked slowly, Earl skittering the flashlight groundward, enough to see a few feet ahead.

“Keep looking around, Earl. If anything moves let me know.”

Three steps farther, Gary froze.

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“Wait,” he whispered. “Stop. There, there she is, momma bear, curled up in that hollow tree stump. Asleep.” Earl panned the light to the left.

“Stop,” Gary said.” Look, two cubs asleep in the log hollow next to the mama. I’m guessing they’re less than a year old tops.

Perfect.”

Gary stepped gingerly toward the mother bear. Suddenly the bears woke up, startled by the new smells of these creatures. The mother raised up, moaned and moved in front of the cubs, her eyes wide open, staring into the beam of the flashlight.

“I’m gonna blow away old mommy bear first,” Gary said to Earl. “Keep the light on her.”

Gary walked to within ten feet of the bear, knowing from experience that the mother always protected the cubs first.

Kaboom.

His first shot hit the mother bear in the throat. She fell, moaning, gurgling, choking on her own blood.

“See that, Earl? That takes her down and really pisses her off,” Gary said with a laugh. “One more will do the trick, but watch this. Ya need to shoot high enough to avoid the lower innards, the payload parts.”

Kaboom.

Gary’s bullet hit directly between the mother bears’ eyes. She fell still, her blood trickling into a puddle. The two cubs began a high-pitched squawking sound, fear in their eyes, wailing, confused, terrified. As Gary approached, they scrambled away.

One cub climbed an oak tree; the other climbed a smaller tree a few yards away. They squealed as Gary approached their mother, pulled a hunting knife from his belt, smiled at it, and slashed the bear open from top to bottom.

He groped the bear’s innards, pushed a kidney aside, grabbed the gall bladder, cut it off with the knife and put it in a gallonsized plastic bag.

“Earl, grab me the small axe. It’s in my backpack,” he said, squatting in front of the bear. With strong whacks of the axe he chopped off her paws and put them in the plastic bag.

“Now the little guys, and hurry up, Earl.”

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Gary went to the smaller tree, looked up and shot the cub in the back. It fell to the ground, keening.

At the second tree, Gary’s bullet entered the cub’s groin and went straight up through its torso. Its claws that were dug into the tree trunk released in slow motion and the cub slid down, plopping on the ground in a pool of its own blood. Gary picked up the axe and stepped between the cubs. One was barely conscious, eyes rolled back into its head. The other’s chest was heaving, blood flowing from between its legs.

“Gary, these babies are still alive,” Earl said. “Why not shoot ’em in the head before you chop ’em up?”

“We’ve already made too much noise. Bring me another plastic bag and we’ll get outta here. Besides, they’re almost dead already. Losing their paws ain’t gonna be a big deal. They’ll join their mommy in bear heaven in a minute.”

Gary laughed out loud as he hacked off the cubs’ paws, tossed them into the bag, then open their bellies, sliced off their gall bladders and headed back to the truck. Sweating from excitement and exertion, he pulled a large kerchief from his back pocket and wiped his hands, then his face, leaving blood streaks and stains on both.

“Why the feet?” Earl asked, still a bit shaken by the events of the past fifteen minutes.

“Little brother, you won’t believe this, but some crazy people in this world will pay huge sums of money to eat, sniff, rub on or otherwise consume all this stuff. And we are meeting a need in society out there.”

“Then why is selling these claws and guts against the law?”

“Earl, that’s for another day. Tell you what. Let’s stop at home, throw this stuff in the garage freezer with what’s already there, wash up and head out to the Waffle House. You up for that?” *** Gary felt great and Earl was relieved on his way to being relaxed, as they headed to the Waffle House in town. Eating waffles, bacon, hash browns and the rest of the menu was a 122

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familiar, fun thing for Earl, a welcome change from creating bear carnage in the woods. Gary’s mild euphoria was in anticipation of a good payday from the flashy, hotshot guy from downstate.

“Tell you what, Earl, go on and get us a booth back in the corner and some coffee and I’ll be right in. I need to make a quick call.”

Gary parked the truck, retrieved his cell phone from the glove box and punched in a familiar number. After three rings, the message service recording told him his call was important and to leave a detailed message.

“Hi, Smokey Bear here,” Gary said in an upbeat voice. “Only you can prevent forest fires. Call me right away.”

Earl was talking with the waitress when Gary slid into the booth.

“Hi Roz,” Gary said, blowing her a small kiss.

“Hey, Gary, what brings you boys out at this hour?”

“Dying to see you, darlin’, right, Earl?”

“Yep, we were out in the…” Gary cut him off with a stern look toward Earl and then put on a blazing smile for the waitress.

“We were out in the garage, Roz, cleaning some equipment for our next tour group.” Gary said. “And the time got away from us. We finished up and came roaring in to see you. Wanna hear a great joke?”

Roz put her hand on her hip, like an annoyed teacher scolding a twelve-year-old kid with a smart mouth.

“Sure, Gary, tell me the great joke.”

Gary laughed even before he started the joke. “These two giraffes are trying to squeeze their way into an Eskimo igloo strip club when a python sidles up…”

“Enough, Gary, that’ll do fine,” Roz said “How about I give you boys a few minutes to decide what you want to eat? Then you can finish the joke.” She turned and walked behind the counter before they could respond.

“Earl, you need to watch what you say in public,” Gary said.

“Miss Roz there is a great pal and all, but she tends to repeat stuff she hears from customers to all the other people who eat here.

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This is nowhere near the season for hunting bear, so we never discuss it, right?”

“No problem, Gary.” Earl looked at the menu for a couple of minutes, then put it down and asked, “What do you call the guts you pulled out of those bears?”

“Damn, Earl, not here, not now. All right, real quick. They’re called gall bladders. Many animals have ’em, including us humans. Some critters don’t have ’em. Guess they don’t need ’em.

I think rats don’t, and horses. I already explained, many people, especially Asians, believe the gall bladder juice, bile, they call it, has magical powers to improve health, cure diseases and stuff.”

“Does it work?”

“All I know is, gettin’ ’em and sellin’ ’em works for me,” Gary said. “Now let’s drop it. And don’t discuss it with anybody, ever, unless you’d like to have a long vacation behind bars.”

“You got it, “Earl said, “but if we do this again, can I get a cut of the deal?”

“Depends, Earl, depends. If you aren’t doin’ the cuttin’ you don’t get nuttin.”

“I heard that, Gary,” Roz said, poised with her order pad. “I sure hope you’re talking about a birthday cake.”

124

27 ATLANTA “You better have twenty minutes for me right now,” Cassie said,” because I’m bursting with news, for your ears only, at least for now.”

She was in her car on the phone to Jimmy at police headquarters, excited to have his ear long enough to tell him what she had learned from Nikki’s producer, RoAnn. “Good, now what’s all this about ‘ears only’?”

Margaret, Jimmy’s assistant, heard him on the phone and closed his office door.

“Nikki was working on a major story about illegal hunting in the North Georgia Mountains,” Cassie said. “RoAnn and a cameraman have been sniffing around up there, hoping to get enough for a TV documentary. Do I have your attention now, Copperhead?”

“Yes, but may I remind you I only slightly love it when you pay homage to the strong, manly color and cut of my hair.”

“Would you prefer I call you Samson Carrot Top?” Cassie teased.

“No. It’s really kinda blond and definitely not orange, don’t you agree?”

“Agree? No way, but I’ll stipulate for now because my twenty minutes are almost up. Listen. Other reporters over the years have done stories about poaching and destroying black bears up there. It raises a stink for a while, the feds are active now and then, but the poachers are elusive, and the demand for bear parts 125

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remains. One bear gall bladder can be worth thousands of dollars in China or Korea and other places too.”

“You sound like you’re working on a script yourself, Cassie.”

Jimmy said. “Why tell me about this? It’s out of my jurisdiction.”

“Here’s the key, Jimmy. With Channel 4 poking around up there, the poachers and their pals are going to hear about it.

Word travels fast in those hills.”

“Hang on, Cassie. Do you think they kidnapped Nikki to keep her from doing a TV show on bear parts poaching?”

“I’m merely saying what if, Jimmy. What if?”

“What about the fur coat and that whole thing with the kidnappers?”

“It’s stupid. You know it and they know it. Set fire to a coat?”

“Right. Did you mention your kidnap theory to the producer, RoAnn, as being possibly connected to their bear poachers investigation?”

“No, not yet. I’ll need proof. What do you say, Copperhead, are you up for a field trip?”

“Remember what I said about jurisdiction, Cass? My badge doesn’t mean a thing in north Georgia. Also I…” “What, Jimmy? Would you rather stay here and supervise the idiots and crackpots who are exploiting the kidnapping and animal rights issue for fun and profit? Have you watched the media coverage? We have TV producers pouring into town with dollar signs in their sunglasses. Did you see the ads for a new network reality show called, Kidnap Rock? It’s starring, guess who, the real Kid Rock, the singer guy. They’re shooting the show in the Ansley Park neighborhood.

“That’s only one example. The local TV stations are out of their minds. One is running a series on the six o’clock news called Where in the World is Nikki Z? It’s some sort of global treasure hunt. If you find Nikki, you win a thirteen-week stint on the station’s early morning show Get Your Butt Outta Bed. If you find Nikki unharmed, you also win a Polaris off-road vehicle.

Enough, Jimmy? Here’s one more show, must-see TV. It’s called Name That Ransom, promoted as a fast-paced game show for, I swear, ‘people with plenty of expendable income and plenty of 126

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leisure time.’ I forget what the winner gets, but you see what I mean, Jimmy?”

Jimmy said nothing for a few seconds. “Are you finished, Cassie? You missed some other nonsense we never told the media about. Like the nine different long-lost half brothers and sisters Nikki has. One was Nigerian. Several more swore they were American Indians. One said he was from North Korea and another gave her address as Pluto. We’re getting dozens of calls from citizens with tips on Nikki’s abduction. We run ’em all down. So my job is here right now. How about you use the phones and Google from here for another day or two. If we’re not any closer to a break, we can consider a trip to the mountains.”

“Thanks, Copperhead,” Cassie said. “Thank-you-thank-youthank you, sweetie. It’s a deal.”

“And Cass, look at it this way. The storm is passed by now.

In a few days it should be chilly but beautiful up there. Maybe we could rent a cabin for a day or two and catch up, if you know what I mean.”

“Catch up, you say?” Cassie asked coyly tilting her head.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, deadpan. “Or, if you prefer, get the lay of the land.”

“Now you’re talking, Copper. That’s my favorite cliché. Lay of the land.”

127

28 ATLANTA & NAPLES Angie drove into the driveway of the house in Grant Park, her heart beating faster than normal. She survived the drugstore run, getting first aid supplies for treating Nikki’s ankle injury, and she endured a wrenching phone call with Rudy, whose pleas for patience and pledges of fidelity sounded phony.

As she gathered up the drugstore items, Spring and Summer appeared at the door.

“Stay out here a minute,” Spring said in a whisper. “Brock’s in there practicing for his next call to the police. But we need to do something right away about Nikki’s foot, her ankle.”

“She needs to see a doctor,” Summer said. “It’s swollen and painful and turning a darker color, Angie. You know Brock won’t allow any visitors, doctors, nurse, nobody.”

“Girls, don’t panic, Angie said. “We’ll figure this out. Let’s bandage up and give her some pain pills. Meantime, we have to hope Brock cuts a deal to get this thing over with.” *** Gary Shanklin was computer-literate when it involved Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures, and he was moderately adept at Excel spreadsheets and Quicken for Home and Business. He was careful to keep his books honest and accurate. A hassle with the IRS or the Georgia State tax authorities would be asking for trouble. Gary did his other business on small file cards in a waterproof pouch hidden behind a package of frozen bear bait and several pounds of unsightly entrails from other carcasses.

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enough past its use-by date.

Gary was in the garage refrigerating his latest harvest of bear parts when his cell rang. The number on the caller display was familiar and he answered it eagerly.

“Hello, Smokey Bear here. Is this my friend who can prevent forest fires?”

“You betcha, Smokey. But I keep telling you, it’s wildfires now, not forest fires.”

“Same same,” Gary chuckled. “Simply a different patch sewn on my cool ranger hat.”

“How about noon tomorrow at the plan A place?”

“Works for me,” Gary said. “Smokey Bear over and out.” *** The afternoon was crawling by to slowly to suit Rudy. He made several notes on things to do, plans to make, then crumpled the notepaper and tried for a three-pointer across the room.

A thousand says I make it. Air ball. Double or nothing.

He tried on three of his wristwatches, trying to choose the perfect one for his poker triumph in a few hours. One had a dead battery and another needed cleaning. He picked the Rolex Oyster.

This says casual success, perfect for the new guys who’ll be checking me out tonight. He bought the watch for his father on a trip to Hong Kong twenty some years earlier, a college graduation present.

Dad loved the watch and the fact that I bought it for him.

Lucky I was there when he died. Mom might have buried it in the coffin with him. Bad enough she did that with his college class ring.

I never understood her reasoning. She called them keepsakes. If they’re keepsakes, keep ’em.

Rudy was entering a mental and emotional zone, a swirl of past and present images that began with random facts and fantasies, then morphed into flashes of doom, fed by adrenalin, and swooped into niches of power when everything goes right.

Face cards zoomed front and center, but the kings on the cards were thrusting madly with hot pokers, the queens were wearing 129

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cowboy clothing and carrying saddles and the jacks were bald and all green. When madness seemed to have won all the chips on a table eight feet high, reality tried to sneak in. A Delta Air Lines logo lighted up the room and Goldilocks walked her three bears on the red carpet on Oscar night. Angie’s face loomed, pouting and teary. Cut to Hunter, with surprised, dead eyes; open.

Rudy shook off the sour soup of images and pain and went into the shower. Fifteen minutes later he was awake, alert, dry, shaven and, at least on the surface, ready to face whatever the table full of high rollers could offer. Driving to the hotel where the poker game would take place, Rudy phoned Angie in Atlanta and charmed her into a good mood.

“I’m coming to Atlanta tomorrow,” he said, feigning enthusiasm. “A couple of business things, small stuff. Then maybe you and I can have some time together.”

He asked her to book a dinner reservation and a hotel.

“Really? Like a date, a real date?”

“Why not? How about that cool place on Powers Ferry Road, something on the river, is it? You mentioned it once or twice, I think.”

“Oh, you mean Ray’s. Wonderful, will do.”

“And get me a suite for tomorrow night at the JW Marriott on Lenox Road,” Rudy said. “Ask for a view of the skyline.”

“Oh, Rudy, oh, oh, that is fabulous. I dream about a night like that. Ever since we met, you’ve been part of me in heart and soul and now, now, oh wow. I’m, I’m speechless. My heart is on fire.”

“Yeah, me too, Angie, me too. On fire. Outta here now.”

“One more thing,” Angie said softly. “Our project needs you, as I do. Our lady ‘guest’ has a serious…”

“Sorry, hon, must go,” Rudy said, shaking his head. See ya tomorrow in Hotlanta. Bye.” Not gonna ruin my pre-poker high with Angie’s mewling about Nikki Z. Not now. Speaking of highs, a tasty bourbon sure would hit the spot. Yeah, a treat before the fun. And I just happen to have some in the house. What are the odds?

He poured a generous slug over ice, downed about half while standing, then wobble-walked to the other room to play with his watches again.

130

29 NAPLES Half a block away, Rudy could see the hotel where the game awaited.

I’ll pull in and give the guy a twenty to keep an eye on my Beamer. No idea how long the action will last.

“Good evening, sir. Are you checking in with us?”

“No, I’m visiting friends for the evening. Oh, please put my car in a covered space, in case it rains. I won’t have to fool with the top.”

“We’ll take good care, sir, of course,” the attendant said, pocketing the twenty. “Is there more luggage, sir?” he asked, eyeing Rudy’s attaché case.

“Not right now,” Rudy answered. As he walked across the forecourt, he noticed both sides were lined with cars, superluxury brands, uniformed men hovering over some of them.

Wonder if they’re all here for my poker game? Not likely. It’s a big hotel.

As he approached the reception area a striking, dark-eyed woman in a midnight green business suit walked from behind the counter and smiled.

“I’m attending the gathering in the White Ibis Salon,” he said, repeating Paulie’s coded phrase.

“Welcome, sir. The private elevator is right here,” she said, gesturing Rudy to follow her.

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Look at that. I’ll follow you anywhere, lady. We should have our own private Texas Hold ’Em after the big game is over tonight.

Up there’s the main course. You’ll be dessert.

Rudy stepped into the elevator. The woman leaned in, pressed a lighted button on the display and held it.

“If you need me for anything, anything at all during your visit, swipe your iPhone right here. My name is Ebony, Ebony Chase, co-chief of security. Good luck. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

The elevator swooshed up to the penthouse, but Rudy’s mind was still on Ebony, rather, on him and Ebony. Together.

Maybe we’ll meet again, she said. What if she showed up with me at the next big charity ball? Maybe the Hearts And The Arts Gala. Yeah, perfect. I don’t know, though. If that happened, some folks here in Naples might need to keep their heart pills handy.

At the penthouse door, Rudy tapped the knocker on the double-door entry to the suite. The soundproof mahogany doors swept open, guided by a chardonnay-haired stunner with eyes so blue the Gulf waters visible from the penthouse turned grey.

The woman took a step out, tucked her arm under Rudy’s and paraded him into the foyer of the suite.

“If you need me for anything, say the word. My name is Ivory, Ivory Hunt, co-chief of security. Good luck. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

Rudy nodded, blinked and smiled, without saying a word, though his mind was at full gallop.

All this happening at once? Big game tonight, business thriving, the Nikki thing about to happen, Hunter out of the way, and now two new playmates, Ebony and Ivory? This may be a special night.

I may change my mind about taking Ebony on the charity glitter circuit. Why not take Ivory, too? Best bookends in Naples. And I’ll be the book! Hardback! *** Rudy quickly noticed that, although he had arrived a little early, five of the other six other players already were there, standing near the octagon-shaped table, drinks in hand, chatting.

They seemed to know each other, using first names.

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“May I put your case at your table seat and offer you a drink, sir?” asked Ivory.

“Yes and yes, Ms. Hunt,” Rudy answered.

“Please call me Ivory, Rudy. We all are on a first name only basis.”

“Ivory, I’ll have a Savannah Bourbon on the rocks, a double please. Thanks.”

The double doors to the suite opened and a tall, willowy woman came through, giving Ivory an air-cheek kiss as she handed over her purse, a Kelly Cut Blue Izmir Hermes croc clutch. A tall, tan man touched his glass to a garish, goldish ring on his forefinger. The sound quieted the room.

“Welcome again everyone. My name is Walt. We’re all here, I see. Let the games begin and if you need a beverage, Ebony and Ivory are here to serve. Also they’ll have a buffet spread for you to enjoy during our breaks.”

Ebony, who had joined Ivory in the penthouse, subtly waved the men and the lady, Evelyn, to their seats. The table was tame, the talk subdued, as the players concentrated on the game. After an hour, Rudy was in it, not sparkling but steady.

This is pretty high cotton, this game. Wonder whether these apparent whales will still be cool by the end of the evening.

Despite trying to appear casually confident, Rudy’s standing eroded. After one bad run, he sputtered “Oh, Christ on a crutch” and slapped the table.

“Relax, Rudy,” advised Walt. “It’s early yet.” Rudy waved to Ivory who replaced his bone-dry bourbon glass with a fresh double.

Twenty minutes later Rudy said to the room, “Is it time for a break or what?”

Walt pushed back his chair, stood and, with a quick but clear glance at Rudy, said, “Twenty minute break. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, as they say, but take the butts out on the balcony.”

Rudy stood, steadying himself. I’m still in the game, but I need a run of luck. And a fresh drink. Rudy’s all-day alcohol consumption was catching up with him.

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When Ivory instantly appeared at his side, he said, “Wow, you are good.”

“Your drink, sir,” she smiled with a flash of her glacier-blue eyes.

Rudy leaned in to give her a thank-you kiss, but Ivory stepped away. For Rudy, the next thirty minutes at the table was a blur of hands lost. At one point Ebony whispered in his ear, “Sir, do you require your attaché case with you at the table?”

“You bet, Ebby. I mean Ebony. You bet. Get it?” He wasn’t even amusing himself at that point, as the cash in the stingray attaché case had dwindled.

Evelyn, the only woman in the game, won regularly. Visibly in a good mood, she approached Rudy at the next break.

“Excuse me, but we haven’t met officially yet. My name is Evelyn. Aren’t you Rudy Decker?”

“Yesh, but Shhhhhhhhhh, we’re not shuppose to, to youz whole names I think, yesh?”

“Sorry, but I thought it was you. I’ve seen you on the society circuit, always doing good deeds.”

Rudy didn’t realize she was teasing. “And you are Eeeveelan something?” he slurred badly.

“Yes,” she replied, ignoring his obvious level of intoxication.

“I think you know a friend of mine, Agatha Wearmsley. We often run into each other at various charity planning meetings, that sort of thing.”

“Fur sure – ha. Fur sure. Shorry, private joke.” He leaned forward and said, in what he meant to be a whisper but came out a loud laugh, “Yeah, I know Hagatha. Hagatha Wormy.

Everybody knows old Hagatha the hag…” His words became wide-mouthed mush.

Evelyn stepped back, used an index finger to push him a few more inches farther away and said, stone-faced, “I knew you were drinking heavily at the poker table. I knew you were getting ugly, but I didn’t know you were stupid, boorish and pathetic as well. Good night, Mr. Rudy Decker. From the looks of things, you may have to put your rather attractive attaché case in the pot to get out of this game tonight. Oh, and I’ll definitely tell Agatha about our conversation.”

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With little fuss, Ebony, Ivory and Walt walked Rudy to the elevator and down to the lobby. Ivory found Rudy’s address in his wallet to give to a cab driver, and Walt said he would arrange to secure Rudy’s car overnight.

“Did you call him a cab, Ivory?” Walt asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“And I called him an asshole,” Ebony laughed.

“Where were we?” Evelyn asked with a rueful smile at her poker pals at the table.

“Let’s play cards,” one of the other players suggested. They slid their chairs to their personal comfort levels.

“Please don’t deal me in right now, gentlemen” said Evelyn. “I have a business call to make, won’t be long.”

“Yeah, sure thing, Ev. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” one of the men said, talking over the others who were relaxed now, intent on teasing Evelyn politely and enjoying the rest of the post-Rudy evening.

Evelyn went out onto the balcony, where the thick hurricane glass sliders and the surf sounds of the Gulf of Mexico would keep her conversation private.

“Wearmsley residence, Jordan speaking.”

“Good evening, Jordan, this is Madam Wearmsley’s friend, Evelyn, calling. Might I speak to her if it’s not too late?”

The butler clicked the small intercom by the house phone stand and told Agatha her friend Evelyn was on the line.

“Put her through, please, Jordan, and thank you.”

“Evelyn? Hello, dear, wonderful to hear from you. What’s it been, a month, two?”

“Much too long, Agatha. Too long. But right now we need to talk, in strictest confidence, of course.”

“Yes, my word. What is it?”

“I was at a minor social event this evening and ran into a man named Rudy Decker. You know him, right? He was drinking heavily. When I introduced myself and said I was your friend, he said, ‘Yeah, I know Agatha,’ um…”

“Go on, Evelyn, please, what did he say?”

“He called you, oh dear, oh my…”

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“What? Please tell me. It’s all right.”

“He called you ‘Hagatha. Hagatha Wormy.’ Sorry-sorrysorry, Agatha, but I knew you’d want to know. Why? Why would he be ugly to you?”

“That’s the fun part, that snake. He wasn’t ugly to me. He was ugly about me. Means he’s a coward,” Agatha said, her voice with a hard edge, like the sound aluminum foil makes when it’s ripped off the roll.

Evelyn paused, her breathing audible over the waves slapping at the beach.

“What is it, Ev?” Agatha asked. ”Was there more? Come on now, I’m almost enjoying this now.”

“All right, yes. He said, ‘Yeah, everyone knows old Hagatha the hag.’”

Agatha laughed into the phone. “That’s hilarious, Ev. You’ve made my night.”

“What are you going to do about this, if anything, Agatha?”

“I’ll think long and hard about it,” Agatha said. “Long and... wait, I have it. Thanks a million, Ev. Let’s do lunch next week. By then we may be able to enjoy the fun my fertile mind will unleash as I scheme. And dream. And make Mr. Decker scream.” *** “Naples Police, how can we help you?”

“Officer, my name is Agatha Wearmsley. I know it’s late, but might I have a word with one of your detective officers?”

“Ma’am, what is the nature of your call? Is there something wrong or are you in distress or some kind of trouble?”

“It may be nothing, but it has to do with the horrible murder of that lovely young woman, Ms. Freeman.”

The officer announced who was calling when he transferred the call to Detective Sam Graham, who immediately activated his Google Voice app to record.

“Mrs. Wearmsley, it’s a pleasure to speak with you. Do you have information regarding the Hunter Freeman homicide?”

“I could be wasting your time, Detective, but I did want to suggest you contact a man she sees socially, a dear boy, Mr. Rudy 136

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Decker. He must be distraught, of course, but maybe he could help.”

“In what way, ma’am?”

“I talked with Rudy at the Grapes and Apes event last night after he returned to the party…”

“Returned?” the detective interrupted. “You mean he went to the gala, then left, then came back later?”

“Yes, we chatted while we danced, more like danced a little while we talked. I asked about Hunter, I mean Ms. Freeman, you know, as to whether she would be attending. He said she was delayed in Atlanta on business and would be coming home the next day.”

“And this was after he returned to the party? Ma’am, are you absolutely sure about that?”

“Oh yes, Detective,” Agatha smiled. “I know most everything that goes on at my charity events. One must keep a sharp eye on all these people seeing and being seen, you can imagine. Money and alcohol and ego make for a great mix, Detective. Great, but challenging.”

“Mrs. Wearmsley, was there anything else? Anything at all?”

“I really don’t want to be a busybody, I…” “No, ma’am, you are not. You are a pillar of this community and we appreciate your coming forth and…”

“And whatever I say is confidential? And no one will know we spoke unless I tell them?”

“At this point, that is correct, yes.”

“For what it’s worth, Rudy is always meticulous about his appearance. His teeth, his hair, his wardrobe, I mean, honestly, he is anal about all that. Do you know anyone who makes sure his belt always matches his watchband? He’s a man who, if he found a pimple on his arm, would call 9-1-1.”

Sam laughed. This job would be more fun if all our potential witnesses were this sharp.

“So…” he began, but Agatha continued.

“While we were dancing, I told him there was a speck of something red on the side of his neck, and he didn’t blink. I wiped it off with my handkerchief and told him it probably was lipstick.

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And I said something like he didn’t have to sneak around, leaving the party and then returning, pretending he never left. I said I didn’t care, as long as he came back eventually. And that was it.

Is that of any help?”

“Yes, it could be quite helpful. By chance, would you still have that handkerchief?”

“You know it probably is still in that bag I was carrying at the gala. Wasn’t much else in it, a lipstick, or two, perhaps.”

Detective Graham felt a slight adrenalin rush.

“Ma’am, would it be possible for you to come to my office sometime tomorrow morning for maybe a half hour? You’ve been extremely helpful and I’d like to chat a while longer. Could we do that?”

“All right, if you think it will help.”

“Oh, and could you bring that evening bag with you, as is, contents included? We’ll get it back to you right away.”

“Why yes, of course. Would eleven be convenient?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll send an unmarked car to pick you up at your home.”

“You’re most kind, Detective, but my driver knows the way.

Eleven, then.”

Sam Graham rang Jimmy Hagan and told him of Agatha’s call.

“Would you like to be part of our interview with her about this Rudy Decker dude?”

“Absolutely,” Jimmy said. “Can we record everything?”

“Yes, we’ll use Skype or Facetime,” Sam said. “You’ll see it all, including photos of the handkerchief. It may be nothing, but it’s our best lead so far.”

“That’ll work fine,” Jimmy said. “We’re still looking for Decker, no leads. Also, in your mind is there even a sliver of a connection between Decker and the Nikki Z kidnapping? I mean other than a sex thing with Hunter Freeman and her consulting work with Nikki Z?” “I wish, Jimmy. I wish,” Sam said. “Talk later. And I think you’ll enjoy Mrs. Wearmsley.”

138

30 NAPLES POLICE DEPARTMENT Detective Sam Graham walked to the front door of Naples Police Department at five to eleven, assuming when Agatha Wearmsley said she’d be there at elevenish, she’d be promptish.

When her Rolls Royce Phantom rolled up a moment later, she stepped out of the car and shook hands with Sam as though she were late for a lunch date with the Queen.

“How do you do, Detective Graham,” Agatha said. “In person is much more satisfying than on the phone, don’t you think?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is a pleasure to meet you. “Follow me please, ma’am. Here, I hope this seat is comfortable. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?”

“I’m fine, Detective. Please, sit. Tell me how I can help you.”

“Yes, of course. And with your permission, we’ll make our conversation available to a few key people in the Atlanta Police Department. They deeply appreciate your help. Is that acceptable to you, ma’am?”

“I trust you, Detective.”

Sam repeated the questions he had asked her on the phone the night before about her time with Rudy Decker during the Grapes and Apes gala at the Naples Zoo. Calm, concise and composed, it was as though she had memorized her comments in the earlier phone call.

Detective Jimmy Hagan listened and recorded the interview in his Atlanta office.

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Sam decided to ease Agatha into the red substance she wiped from Rudy Decker’s neck while they were dancing at the party.

“Yes, I have the handkerchief right here in the evening bag I carried last night,” she said.

“May I give this to a colleague while we’re talking? She will keep it safe and return it in perfect condition. If necessary, could you leave it with us for a while?”

“I don’t…” she feigned mild concern. “I suppose, if it truly would be of help in your work. It was a gift from my husband, but he won’t miss it. Yes, keep it as long as you need it.”

Sam made a note to mark as evidence the handkerchief Agatha left with him. Then he phoned Jimmy in Atlanta.

“We can send this to the state crime lab to see whether any DNA on it and the spot of blood or lipstick have an owner we care about, like the deceased. We have her DNA from the crime scene.”

“Terrific, Sam,” Jimmy said. “How long will it take your people to run it?”

“We have the state agency that handles DNA a few miles up the road in Fort Myers. And they’re good. But everybody’s backed up, and it could take weeks. How about in Atlanta?”

“Yeah, jammed. When you mix serious technology, turf war bureaucrats and lawyers, criminal justice gets complicated. Not that anything like that would happen here.”

Jimmy visualized Sam’s smirk. “Right, Sam. We’ll push hard at this end. Decker’s face is on TV all over the country by now.”

140

31 ATLANTA When her iPhone buzzed, Angie didn’t recognize the number displayed on it. She didn’t get many calls when she was not in her office in the little town north of Atlanta.

“Hello?” she asked in a questioning tone, ready to be professional, dismissive or whatever else might be required for her first call of the day.

“Good morning, my name is Cassandra Page, a reporter for Global News Service. A nice woman in your office at the North Georgia Wildlife Preservation Association gave me your number.

Angie, is it? I didn’t get your last name, but the woman said you were the person I need to talk to.”

Angie recognized Cassie’s name.

“How can I help you, Ms. Page?”

Cassie explained she was looking into possible illegal activities in North Georgia.

“Specifically, bear poaching, hunting and killing of black bears and selling body parts. I thought your group might be working to stop the wanton slaughter and maybe I could…”

“Excuse me, but the NGWPA does not go looking for poachers” Angie said. “We simply provide information about and support for pro-wildlife organizations. Also, Ms. Page, I am curious about your interest. You’re the second TV person recently to call us and ask about it.”

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“Who else?” Cassie said. “If I may ask?”

“Some woman at Channel 4 News, maybe a couple of weeks ago,” Angie said. “I don’t recall her name. Joanne maybe, something Ann, I think.”

“Could it be RoAnn? Cassie asked, “Like row, row, row your boat?”

“Yes, could be. Roanne, Rowanna, not sure. Does it matter, Ms. Page?”

“Maybe not,” Cassie said. “But that’s the name of Nikki’s producer, you know, the TV newswoman who’s been kidnapped?”

“No way to avoid that. On TV twenty-four seven.”

Angie’s mind was racing. Hell yes, it matters. What if a bunch of those poachers found out Nikki Z was going to put a big crimp in their bear business. What if…

“Ms. Page? Ms. Page?” Suddenly preoccupied, Angie spoke quickly. “I really need to get back to work if there’s nothing further…”

“Of course, Angie, and thanks much for your time. Oh, call me Cassie, please. And call me any time if anything interesting develops with your wildlife group. I’ll text you my number. Bye now.” *** “Good morning and thanks for coming, especially those of you normally off-duty at this hour. I’ll fix that as soon as possible.”

At police headquarters, Jimmy talked to his detectives, who were all on duty now and knew why.

“This is day four of the Nikki Z kidnap case, unresolved.

Here’s what we know, what we think we know and what we don’t know. We know very little. We don’t know where she is, who snatched her and what condition she’s in. What do they really want? That BS about the fur coat is too silly to be true. But, if it is a real demand, having her burn the coat at the big zoo do, then her kidnappers are the Three Stooges. And that’s an insult to the real ones, Larry, Moe and Curly. And Shemp.

“If the bad guys do what they’ve said, they should phone again within the hour. We need another proof of life. We need to redouble work on the verbal clues the victim apparently tried to 142

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give us three days ago; ‘zebra,’ and ‘habitat.’ Some of you already have canvassed the zoo grounds. Nada. Please try again. Talk to everybody you can. Get your informants out there and let ’em know this is priority.” *** Rudy eased into the back seat of the taxi, worried about his red BMW convertible still garaged at the Faulkner Towers Hotel.

But he was thankful he didn’t have to drive it for a few days. He was on his way from Naples to Atlanta, and his agenda for the trip did nothing to ease his head-to-toe bodily discomfort.

As the cab slid into the early morning traffic, the driver asked, “What time’s your flight?”

Distracted, Rudy asked him to repeat the question.

“In two hours. We have plenty of time.”

Rudy’s hair hurt, his back teeth itched and his stomach churned with the nausea of the moment and anxiety about the day ahead. Remorse and regret about his disastrous behavior at the poker game the night before had made Rudy miserable most of the night. By dawn, however, his ability to compartmentalize was safe and his penchant for blithely blaming others was intact. But, the lingering facts that rankled most during the slow hangover fade, still stung.

His bum luck at the table included the loss of the entire forty thousand dollars he took to the game. After that he scribbled a handful of IOUs. When the other players declined further such paper promises, Rudy’s judgment cratered. Then he bet his Rolex, the one he gave his dad years ago and then took back the day he died. Within minutes, the Oyster belonged to someone else.

I needed another twenty minutes sleep on the plane. My bad luck Delta was on time this time. Rudy looked for the time on his wrist but all he saw was the pale shape of where the Rolly lived until the poker game.

Good thing we’re on schedule, I guess. Sooner I get my timesensitive business done here in Atlanta, the sooner I can get with Brock, straighten him out and fix my cash flow difficulty. I’ll start on that now.

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“Hey, Brock, your man with a plan here. Time to call the cops again, right?”

“Sure, Rudy, I’m about to do that. Whadaya think they’ll say?”

“I think they’ll call you a whack job, tell you to stop the silly stuff about a fur coat, a fire and all that high school junk. And that’s what we want them to do. Now.” “Uh, I don’t think I understand.”

“Here it is, Brock. Right now the cops are frustrated. They don’t have any decent clues as to where Nikki is. If they did, they’d be acting on them. You’re gonna tell the cops that PAP and the millions of people it represents demand one million dollars in cash. A million bucks. Ransom, extortion, swag, bounty, booty, loot, whatever they want to call it. We want it within twentyfour hours, details to follow. If they deliver, we release Nikki Z unharmed.”

“What if they refuse, Rudy?”

Rudy laughed, limply showing self-confidence.

“If they refuse, Brock, tell them we will cut off a piece of Nikki every twelve hours until they hand over the money. And we’ll start with her left pinkie.”

“Did you say you’ll cut off a piece of Nikki?” Brock asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Is that like the old Chinese torture thing, death by a thousand cuts? Who’s going to do that, Rudy?”

“Never mind, Brock, it won’t get that far.”

“But Rudy, didn’t you say we’d release her unharmed?” Brock asked, a quiver in his voice.

“Sure, why?” Rudy asked. “Is there a problem?”

“Uh, Rudy, I have another call. Can we talk later?

“Yeah, but call me the minute you hang up with the cops.” *** Rudy carefully drove the rented sedan at the speed limit as he passed through downtown and then northeast Atlanta toward the suburb of Lawrenceville. He was not accustomed to driving like he was taking the high school driver training exam. He could not remember ever driving a grey, midsized four-door, but for 144

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this business trip he wanted a low-octane, low profile car. He wasn’t sure of the model name, but if there was a Chevy Stolid, he’d pay extra. Except he was broke.

This enterprise may not be a gold mine yet, but it can be. And people. Yeah, it’s a people business. It’s a low overhead deal, a product popular all over the world. And we’re only getting started.

Eventually we can find contractors - that’s a good name for them, contractors - to grow the product from scratch. Literally. Yeah, that’s a great idea, grow and gut the bears, sell the gall bladders and paws and park the cash in some Caribbean bank. Hot damn.

Rudy’s mood improved by the time he arrived at Ted’s Montana Grill, right on time.

He killed the motor, leaned over and opened the right side front door. A man in a plaid flannel shirt slid in, closed the door behind him, and stuck out his hand.

“How the hell are ya? How about this; we both showed up here at almost exactly the same time. Somethin’, huh?”

Rudy smiled and shook his business associate’s hand. “It’s not like we haven’t done this before. You have a package for me?”

“In the truck, man, some from me and more from a couple of new guys who are getting their feet wet. You said you wanted some new blood.”

“Yes, we do,” Rudy said. “And I’m working to make sure this gig stays real for a long time. A few people would like to ruin it for everybody, but I’m on the case. I’m also running late now and I need to fetch the cooler. We’ll talk in a few days. One thing.

You have to double or triple production for the next few months.

We’re cash-strapped right now. I’ll fix that soon, but for now, dig in.”

“You bet. Now, you have a package for me?”

“It’s right here,” Rudy said. “Cold, hard cash in a Ziploc bag I put aside a few days ago for you. We have to stay tight. This gall bladder thing is a nearly perfect play. Low overhead, get to be outdoors with nature, and, most of all, these bear gall bladders are a renewable resource.”

“Free and clear, Smokey,” Rudy smiled. “Freakin’ Free and Clear.”

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32 ATLANTA Rudy grinned to himself, then laughed out loud as he drove his rental car toward the next stop on his busy business day. He seldom laughed at himself, but couldn’t help it as he slowed to a stop at a traffic light. A pretty girl in a Mercedes convertible shot through the intersection on his left, her blond hair billowing and streaking like a contrail behind her silver car.

I oughta have one of those magnetic signs on this butt-ugly grey Chevy reading, “I have a red BMW ragtop at home, honest.”

I hate this part of the job, this bear guts delivery service. But I’ll find a stooge to do this chore soon. Brock, maybe? Brock.

Please. I need to use him now, but he’ll be a liability soon. He can connect me to the kidnapping. Angie can too, of course. But she’s a pushover, gullible, probably useful a little longer. It’s Brock who needs neutralizing. How does it get this complicated? Funny how my guardian angel or whatever delivered the two of them to me like a bolt of good luck lightning.

Rudy met Brock and Angie several weeks earlier when they sat at the same table at a Humane Society fundraiser in Atlanta.

Shaking hands, “Hi, I’m Rudy-I’m Angie-I’m Brock.”

“This must be the singles table,” Rudy cracked. “Any of us married or otherwise engaged?” He shook his head, Brock wagged a forefinger and Angie blushed.

“I wonder what else we all have in common,” Angie asked, barely able to shed her normally reticent demeanor.

They ordered fresh drinks and Rudy raised his glass.

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“Let’s play Truth or Dare, but go easy on the Dare,” he said, flashing the instant smile that onlookers couldn’t not notice. It made Brock feel insignificant and dull. It made Angie feel a little weak all over.

“Ladies first, Angie,” Brock said. “Tell us about yourself.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Angie said in a soft voice, pausing for a sip of her Chardonnay. “I was born and raised in North Georgia, a little town called Holly Springs, near Canton, where I work now. I’m the director of the North Georgia Wildlife Preservation Association. I also support the Humane Society, which is why I’m here. That’s about it.”

Angie tried not to stare at Rudy and failed. She had little experience with men of his type – Hollywood- handsome, glib, whose code of conduct was the famous quote by comedian George Burns. “The secret of success is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you have it made.”

Angie knew she was not beautiful. Pleasant-looking, her mother said. Plain Jane snotty high schoolers called her.

The truth in Rudy’s verbal selfie was as rare as a stovepipe hat.

An honest account would be more disturbing than interesting.

Rudy grew up in a comfortable world with comfortable, conservative parents. He skated through college with his artful use of charm and malarkey, combined with a desire to be affluent without having to work for it. Rudy was almost as smart as he thought he was. In college and since, he survived and sometimes prospered with several fundamental skills, interests and passions.

He loved women. A college friend once enviously dubbed Rudy a chick magnet.

He also loved hanging out with rich people and was good at pretending to be one. His addiction to gambling often produced enough winnings to make the charade convincing, but nobody noticed that behind his social skills was the mind of a sociopath.

Brock didn’t tell the real tale of his life, either, but he offered a tepid, routine accounting of a rich kid who never made the varsity even though his daddy could have bought the school.

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skills were lacking and his desire to be somebody usually went unfulfilled. His satchel full of donations to good causes creaked with cash. Still, Brock felt unappreciated. If he were the tree that fell in the woods with someone there to hear it, his fall would not make a sound. As he spoke, Brock pulled back from selfpity, embarrassed to say the truth out loud about his chronic inadequacy. He was thinking truth while leaving unsaid examples of self-described failure.

Hell, at Christmas time, Rudy could flip a quarter into the Salvation Army bucket and female passersby would stop, swoon and text to friends, “Now there’s a man who cares.” But, if I showed up with a steamer trunk full of doubloons for the poor, those same women would dismiss me with a casual toss of their perfect hair and say with a scoff, “Who, him? I think he’s Santa’s third elf on the left.”

Brock’s barely recognizable fantasy version of his life lay on the table, unlamented, dripped on by the condensation from the empty drinks. Rudy jumped in and toasted the trio with another round.

“Angie, can we go back to you for a minute?” Rudy asked. She blushed, loving Rudy’s attention, but not sure how to handle it.

“What do you like about your job?” Rudy pressed. “You’re in the wildlife business, we know, but the job itself, anything wild going on?”

“I guess not, compared to your world, Rudy,” Angie answered.

She paused, trying to remember a story or an event.

“I did get a call from an important TV newsperson. She was a producer for Nikki Z on Channel 4. Said Nikki is doing a huge report about bear poaching in North Georgia, in the mountains.

She asked me a bunch of questions and said she might call again for more information. Not wild in your sense, Rudy, but it is interesting.”

“For sure, Angie,” Rudy said. “How about you, Brock? Any bears in your business?”

Brock began a tale from his college days, but Rudy didn’t hear a word of it.

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I have to stop that TV show and Nikki. She could ruin my sweet gall bladder business. Have big plans for that. Can’t let those TV people screw it up. Maybe I can use these losers to get the news babe out of the picture.

Rudy tuned back in, “I think we’re all connecting damn well.

And, from the look of it, we’ve outlasted all of the others.”

They were the only three attendees still at a table. Angie was on her third Chardonnay, probably a record-breaker. Brock was lapping up a bottle of red zinfandel and Rudy was finishing a third Savannah bourbon on the rocks. He could barely recall the name of the charity being celebrated that evening. What Rudy did know was that Brock seemed perfect to play the role Rudy wanted. And Angie was low-hanging fruit. When Rudy offhandedly suggested Atlanta needed an action-centered animal rights organization, Angie giggled, realizing she and Rudy might be working closely together. Brock began writing possible names for the group on a linen napkin.

“We need something attention getting,” Brock said, which convinced Rudy that Brock could be his newly found lackey.

Maybe I’ll start calling him Mr. Obvious.

“Good idea, Brock. And you know as well as anyone that money talks. We should start with a big infusion of cash, and if you make it big enough, we could call our enterprise the Brock L. Preston IV Foundation. Seriously.”

Brock beamed excitedly.

“No way, Rudy, that’s over the top, really.”

“All right, Brock, but let’s keep it at least as a working title for now. Let’s live with it a little, and our informal in-house name could be the Brock Animal Rights Foundation.”

“I’ll drink to that, Rudy.” Brock looked a touch weepy as he reached over to clink Rudy’s glass. “And you, Angie?”

“I’m with you, Brock. And I’m totally with you, Rudy, the sooner the better.” Her eyes were moist, too, as she imagined life with Rudy.

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“I want to make an amazing difference,” Brock said. “I have all the money in the world, but sometimes it seems I’m invisible in this town.”

“I get it, Brock, and it will happen. With your resources and my connections and with the lovely Angie at my side, I, we will neuter the fat cats here in Atlanta. We’ll make charity history and front-page headlines. Don’t cry, girls and boys.”

“Tears of joy, Rudy,” Brock said. “Tears of joy.”

“Tears of love,” Angie whispered to herself. “Tears of love.”

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33 BUFORD HIGHWAY DISTRICT - ATLANTA The sign read Asian Treasures & Pleasures in English, Korean and Spanish, big red letters on dark blue background. The sign could have included dozens of other languages and still not reflect the native tongues of all the people who live or work or shop along Buford Highway in Metro Atlanta.

Rudy was not interested in the area’s exotic atmosphere, the palpable sense of commercial chaos that permeated the several mile stretch. He was there to get as much cash as he could for the illegally obtained bear body parts in the shin-high cooler he carried on his shoulder. He had already shrugged off whatever embarrassment he created at the over-served poker game in Naples.

They have my forty thousand and then some. If that’s not enough to make them happy, those vultures with obviously doctored-up drinks and tarted-up, trick-turning hookers, then screw ’em.

Rudy declared himself innocent of anything but excessive enthusiasm and misplaced trust.

It’s time to blow that off, cash in on the bear guts and deal with the Nikki kidnapping, where the real money is.

Large wicker crates and baskets filled with fish, plucked chickens and fruits and vegetables lined the area in front of the Asian Treasures store. Women in traditional Chinese garb gathered in clusters, urging shoppers to inspect the goods in their small area of concrete. Rudy ignored them and pushed through the narrow front doors to an inner courtyard, also jammed with 151

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colorful things to eat, drink, stew, sew, fry, buy, try on or peel off.

Rudy held the cooler chest high with both arms as he pressed through, heading for double swinging doors in the back of the store.

“Hello, sir, welcome again to Treasures and Pleasures,” said a middle-aged man sitting at a folding worktable. Behind him on a grey concrete wall was a four feet wide flag of the Republic of Korea next to a US flag. On two tables across the room, aluminum, cafeteria-style trays contained clumps and side-byside pieces of something that could have been chunks of meat, hair still on about half of them, sliced cleanly in filet fashion. A sign about the size of an iPad protruded from each tray.

I wonder if that sign says “hair of the dog,” Rudy thought. Now that’s funny.

“Mr. Kim, it’s nice to see you,” Rudy said. “I have some merchandise you’ll want. Top-notch gall bladders and paws, all flash-frozen. About eight pounds of claws, some adult, some cubs that were in the way, but all good.”

“You mentioned gall bladders?”

“You bet, have a look,” Rudy said, opening the cooler to show Mr. Kim the goods.

“Put them on the scale by the TV, please.”

Rudy separated the gall bladders on the scales. Mr. Kim looked, made a note and pressed a buzzer under his worktable. A teenage boy came from a side door, swept the gall bladders into a moisture-proof bag and left the room.

“My wife’s sister’s son,” Mr. Kim said, nodding at the door.

“Smart boy. I give him scraps to practice on and he’s doing nicely.”

Rudy gave a short smile and said, “Mr. Kim, please excuse my rudeness, but I must go.”

“Yes, of course, sir. You’ll find your payment in the pouch, as usual. Do you wish to count it?”

“No, no, no, of course not. You, Mr. Kim, are among the most honest men I know.”

“And you, sir,” Mr. Kim said, bowing slightly as Rudy turned to leave.

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Yeah, you bastard, I noticed you weighed the gall bladders. It’s a den of thieves is what it is. Yeah, den of thieves. I wonder if my Chevy still has the tires on it.

153

34 NAPLES & ATLANTA When Rudy left his Naples home to catch the flight he had booked to Atlanta, the house was a mess and so was he, poorly shaved, hair barely brushed, the bathroom reeking of the Listerine he used to cut his eighty-proof case of morning mouth.

Although Naples Detective Sam Graham couldn’t smell it when he knocked on Rudy’s front door, he met a strong whiff when he entered through the unlocked kitchen door around back. There, in the bedroom and living room, the place looked like occupants had fled without paying the rent. Sam phoned police headquarters to start the search for Rudy.

“Decker may have left the area, contrary to our instructions,” he told the duty officer. “Put out a BOLO for him and pass it to county and state law enforcement, too. Check airline manifests and reservations lists. Get logs from Naples cab companies and other car services. His own car is nowhere in sight, but put it on the alert. It’s a late model red BMW convertible. FYI he is wanted for questioning in the homicide death of the former TV news anchorwoman here, Hunter Freeman. Tell all hands to call me personally with whatever they get.”

Detective Graham’s next call gave Jimmy Hagan at Atlanta PD a quick update on the Hunter Freeman murder case, including Rudy and the BOLO. “Naw, we have nothing on him yet,” Sam said to Jimmy. “But he’s our only real lead. When we first questioned him, he said his girlfriend, Hunter, was due back here in Naples from Atlanta the 154

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night of the murder. We have some dots to connect.”

“Tell you what, Sam,” Jimmy said with a make-believe serious tone. “I’ll trade you your one-on-one, cut and-dried homicide, it seems, for my screwed-up crazy, dumber than a Princess Phone kidnapping by a cuckoo’s nest full of eco-dopes. And I’ll throw in an overlay of sadistic criminals who cut open black bears for fun and fortune. Deal? Hello? Hello? Is this thing on? Sam? You there? Great talking to you Sam. Anything I can do….” Click.

Later that day, Sam caught a good-news, bad-news break.

Airline records showed a Rudy Decker was on a Delta flight from Naples-Fort Myers to Atlanta. The bad news was the plane had already landed and the passengers scattered. Rudy’s name did not appear on any connecting flights, but he had rented a cutrate car near the airport, suggesting he still could be in the area. *** Brock looked at his watch, entered a number into a burner cell phone, and Channel 4 News Director DK Jack picked up on the fourth ring.

“Why do you allow it to ring and ring?” Brock asked DK. “Do you have something more important to do than talk about the future, if any, of your anchor person, Ms. Nikki?”

“You have my attention, Mr. Pap. Anything new?”

“Yes. You have not agreed to any of our demands, but they all still stand.”

“You may think they’re standing where you are,” DK responded, “but, from where we are, they are crumbling all around you. Nobody is going to start a fire at the zoo to burn a fur coat. Am I right, Detective Hagan?”

Jimmy leaned into the phone. “You are correct, DK. Also, there’s no way all the TV stations in the country will broadcast commercials for the PAP people and their nutty demands.”

“Listen to us, Mr. Pap,” DK said. “If you harm Nikki or even make her only cranky, we will, what do they call it, bring you to justice? Yes, we will bring you to justice, preferably in a hearse.

One or the other, you won’t feel anything by that time, Mr. Pap. Any questions?”

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Brock was shaken, flustered, with none of the bluster he showed earlier. He paused, then straightened and spoke quietly into the phone.

“You don’t think we’re serious. We are. And here’s proof. Not only do we want everything we’ve demanded, we also want a little tip for our excellent service to your beloved Nikki Z. She is a hard guest to please. Aggressive. Noisy. A royal pain. We insist on a cash component to our cause.”

“What are you talking about, Pap?” DK asked.

“A million bucks,” Brock said offhandedly.

“How much?” DK said.

“One million dollars!” Brock shouted. “Want to hear it again?

One million US dollars. Think it over, you dunderheads. See what you’ve done? You’ve made PAP angry. And that’s not right.

We are PAP and we ARE somebody. We’ll get back to you in a few hours. For now, suckers.” *** Angie and the girls could not believe it.

“A million dollars simply to let Nikki go?” Spring asked. “You think they’ll do that, Brock? Think what PAP could do with a million dollars. We could spread our message around the world.

What do you think, Summer?”

“We could donate the money to Zoo Atlanta,” Summer said, twirling her hair with her left hand, tapping her foot about a thousand times a minute. “We could make it the best zoo in the world, right here, right down the block.”

“And we could spend a bit of the ransom to close those horrible fur farms,” Spring chimed in. “You know, the ones where they breed mink and sable and other fur-bearing creatures. It would be cool to wipe them off the planet, the farmers, I mean, not the harmless little animals.”

Angie asked Brock what he would want PAP to do with a million dollars.

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gravitas, as though he were doing a non-commercial commercial on National Public Radio. “And you, Angie?”

“I’m a bit conflicted on all this, really,” Angie frowned.

“Sometimes it’s hard to separate the good people from the bad people. You think you know somebody and…”

“Hey, Nikki, you’re too quiet over there,” Brock almost shouted. Wake up, your future is in play here.”

With sleep aids and painkillers Angie brought her from the drugstore, Nikki was groggy much of the time, which suited Brock, except when he wanted to taunt her.

“Are you worth a million bucks to anybody?” Brock asked.

“On a good day?”

Nikki stirred, propped herself on one elbow and vigorously gave Brock a middle finger with the other taped hand.

“See this, Brock, you tool? This is a big fat digit. It belongs on your stupid PAP banners. Am I worth a million? Hell yes. But my people are way too smart to give it to you or your pitiful PAP lackeys.” *** “Jimmy, I have to talk with Mr. Young before we go any further on this nightmare,” DK said. “It’s no surprise to you that I can’t spend a million pennies at this TV station without approval from on-high, much less a million bucks.”

“I know, DK. That’s free rein compared to life at our beloved cop shop. I have to fill out a form in triplicate to use a pay toilet.”

The news director’s cell phone chirped. Station Manager Otis Young had arrived.

“Gentlemen,” said the station manager, “my assistant told me you need to see me for an emergency. What is it? Something about a ransom note or a demand? Wait a sec. I’m putting us on the in-house public address system. All right, our conversation can be heard throughout the building. I want all of you at this TV station to hear what we’re up against. Now, if everyone can hear, go ahead, Detective Hagan.”

“Sir, the people who say they kidnapped Nikki have a ransom demand. They bragged about it in their latest phone call.”

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“How much do these scoundrels want in ransom?”

“A million dollars, Mr. Young, a million for Nikki’s safe return.”

“No joke?” Young asked matter-of-factly. “Could it be some copycat idiot trying to glom on?”

“No, sir. Same voice on the phone as before.”

“DK, Detective Hagan, how can I put this clearly and calmly to you? You can tell these low-life slugs anything you want, but let it reflect my thinking. I would not pay them a million dollars if my ass was on fire and they owned the only extinguisher.”

With that definitive end to the conversation, Jimmy used the men’s room down the hall before he and DK huddled to plan the next press briefing in about an hour.

“Hey, Lois Lane, what do you make of the ransom demand?” he asked Cassie.

“Are you in the john again, Jimmy? Maybe you should see a doctor about that.”

“You’re hilarious as usual, Cass. Funny how every time we talk like this, me in the men’s room, you get a major news scoop out of it. Ever think of that, babe?”

“If you’re calling about the million-buck ransom, that’s old news,” Cassie said. “At least by half an hour.”

“How much would you pay me for the best quote to date in this bizarre story” Jimmy asked. “ I mean you, Global News Service diva, TV celebrity, blah blah blah? You would have the quote that’ll make the other TV news anchor people weep, and the late night TV comedians will laugh their butts off. Oops, almost gave it away. You want it or not? It’ll be on Channel 4 within twenty minutes.”

“Sure, Copper, I can always use a bright, light story to end my report tonight. What is it?”

“It’s from the big boss here at Channel 4. He said after we told him the knuckleheads demanded the million bucks. He said, quote, ‘I would not pay them a million dollars if my ass was on fire and they owned the world’s only extinguisher.’ Period. There, young lady, go share your scoop with the mere mortals in your business. And you’re welcome. Love you.”

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Back in the newsroom, Jimmy and DK joined several news producers and a woman from the department at the TV station, Creative Services. Once called the promotion department, all TV stations have one. They’re tagged with the “creative” handle not because the staffers who work there are the creative caliber of Mozart, Shakespeare or Steve Jobs, but because it describes the urgent mission of persuading people to watch newscasts and other programs.

The Creative Services director at Channel 4 was Zoe Temple, who everybody called “the Other Z.” She was underwhelmed by that, but hurt more when Nikki Z referred to Zoe as Zero on the rare occasions she referred to her at all.

From the moment Nikki was kidnapped that dreary evening, Zoe lobbied her bosses to do massive publicity.

“This is a terrible thing,” she said in a staff meeting, “but come on, people. If we’re smart, this will be the breakthrough we’ve been looking for. If we do it right, we won’t have to continue sucking on the exhaust pipes of the other TV stations in the race for ratings.”

“She does have a way with words,” Jimmy whispered. DK shrugged. “She’s barely getting started. You need to be patient.

Her rhetoric will peak in a minute. Wait, here it comes.”

“What are we waiting for?” Zoe pleaded. “We cannot let this go to waste. It is a tragedy of tragic proportions.”

DK stood and held out his hands, palms up, a gesture aimed at changing the subject before waves of laughter could flood the room and drown any chance for a serious discussion.

“Thank you, Zoe. Now, let’s take a break. Be back here in fifteen minutes ready to work. And Zoe, please bring a list of what the other TV stations are doing with the Nikki kidnapping.”

“Oh, DK, it’s unreal out there,” Zoe said. “One station is offering odds on…”

“Fifteen minutes, not now, Zoe. Go.” ***

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Zoe was the last staffer to return to the brainstorming session, clutching an iPad, an iPhone, an electronic pointer, two clipboards, a fanny pack full of three-by-five index cards and an old, red Easy button from Staples. Nestled in her espressocolored curly hair was a half-used number two pencil, poised to escape. She began pitching her newest idea without sitting down. Looking at DK and Jimmy, ignoring others in the room, Zoe shifted the weight of her armful of office supplies and said in a soft, “listen to this” sort of voice, “A Free Nikki Z Bingo Blast!”

The room went so quiet DK could hear his pulse pumping.

“Zoe, you have the floor.”

“Sure, DK. We develop a video version of Bingo but with unique letters and numbers and have an ongoing Nikki Z game.

We have links to everybody’s Facebook and Twitter accounts and it would be a worldwide smash hit on Instagram. The letters on Bingo boards spell out players’ guesses on how Nicki was snatched, where she’s held hostage, like that. Grand prizewinners get some cheap Channel 4 swag, maybe signed by Nikki, something like, ‘To Tawny, you saved my life. Now leave me alone.’”

Zoe rattled off a few other ideas, snippets of promotional messages full of words like “stupendous,” “dazzling,” “worldchanging,” “explosive” and “heart-stopping.”

“Thank you Zoe. Please get some newsy promo announcements ready to air every hour. Some should run thirty seconds, some a minute. We want viewers to see these promos and cry for Nikki. Do the tearjerker promos first, then Bingo after that. Maybe. Make some promos take viewers on a video tour of, say, Nikki’s World. Show her office, the way she left it that fateful night, where she sat, her empty anchor desk chair. Drape a black cloth over it, yeah that works. And show viewers the room where Nikki’s hair and makeup artists made magic before each news broadcast. Show Nikki’s car parked in the secure parking and put an armed security guard in front of the car for the video.”

DK was on a roll, pumping out clever, sometimes sleazy, ideas for ways to exploit Nikki’s kidnapping; telling himself it was also for her benefit.

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Later, he explained to Jimmy Hagan his motive for going low-rent in promoting the Nikki Z drama.

“Sometimes, Detective, you have to grab the viewer by the short and curlies to get their attention. Then you need to squeeze some other body parts to get a tear. A sob is better. We need to humanize Nikki. Many viewers love her because of her tough, take-no-prisoners approach to the world. Flaunting the fur coat is but one example. Some love it. But we also want the softies in the audience, the ones who always cry when they guess the clue while playing Charades. We want male viewers who fantasize a wild night with Nikki Z when she takes off the sable coat and lies on it in front of the fireplace. See, Jimmy?”

Jimmy saw.

Maybe I’ll run all that by Cassie one chilly night and see where it goes. No, she’d laugh and make me take off my clothes in front of our fireplace. All except the cuffs.

He phoned Cassie from the parking garage.

“Hi, Lois Lane, I want to let you know you’ve been on my mind lately.”

“Lately? How lately?”

“Like the last fifteen minutes, non-stop. I can tell you now or show you later.”

“Will the occasion require any special planning, Mr. Detective, Sir?” Cassie teased. “I mean by me, that is.”

“Planning? No. Special? Always. Think of it as house arrest.” *** DK ordered his Channel 4 team to do an instant special report. Jimmy made another quick stop in the men’s room near DK’s office and phoned Cassie.

“This is worth a live network alert,” Cassie replied. “I’ll do that and maybe see you at the briefing at Channel 4?”

“Yes, and please emphasize on the air that Nikki’s welfare is paramount, blah, blah, and we’re not ruling out anything in our effort to… you know the rest. Also, Cassie, anything new on that other project you’re on top of, the bear stuff?”

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“Not specifically, but I’ve read about the bear-parts poaching business. It’s huge. And don’t forget, Copper, you-know-who’s producer, RoAnn, has been preparing an exposé on that. I still smell a connection there somewhere between the kidnapping and the black market bear business.”

“All right. See you at the media merry-go-round.”

162

35 ATLANTA Angie was a bit early for their already-early dinner reservation.

On purpose. She wanted to get to Ray’s on the River before Rudy so she could unwind, have some wine and compose herself. The hostess seated her at a window table with a decent view of the river, another good reason to be there early. Angie asked for a wine list. No way would she order wine or a drink for Rudy. She liked to think of him as a drinks extremist. He loved what he liked and hated everything else.

Mister Unpredictable is what he is. I saw him send the wine back three times one evening, yet enjoy Mad Dog 20/20 with a Night Train Express chaser next. Guess I should stay sorta sober in case the booze gets the best of him. I’ll be fine to drive.

Angie felt jittery, but her queasy uneasiness abated by the time she had finished her first glass of Far Niente chardonnay.

With the second, she smiled pleasantly and silently argued with herself.

I know I don’t know him well, but well enough to know he’s complicated. Yeah, but that can mean self-indulgent. One time he’s calling me darlin’ and the next time he doesn’t call at all. Can I trust him to keep me out of any hassles this whole Nikki kidnap thing will stir up? He promised. “Be my eyes and ears, Angie, that’s all. Keep Brock from going all bipolar on us.” That’s what Rudy said. But what about Nikki Z, lying there with a really bad injury?

Does she deserve that? I know it hasn’t made her any nicer, but she could lose a foot or be crippled for life.

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Maybe when I tell Rudy about the injury he’ll know what to do. Gosh, I hope all that stuff won’t ruin our evening together. And what about that? He said, ‘Get me a suite at the JW Marriott.’ ‘ME a suite.’ His exact words. Not ‘Get us a suite.’ Does that mean he isn’t planning for me to stay? What if he does? Do I? Seems sort of, um, irregular, I guess. Oh get a grip, Angie. Irregular? What are you, a nun? No, it seems fabulous, but will it be nothing but a fling, a one-night stand? With me? This time? I have fantasized about it, Lord knows. And maybe if it’s great, he’ll care more about me. Or maybe kick me out of bed with the room service tray. Still, it has been a while. Let’s see, autumn, winter…let me think. Oh, stop it.

Doesn’t matter.

When the server pointed to her empty glass with the chardonnay bottle in his hand, “Yes, please,” Angie said. As he poured, Angie knew one thing she would discuss with Rudy, no matter what else.

He doesn’t know about her ankle injury, that she can’t walk. I’ll tell him first thing.

“Ma’am, may I suggest an appetizer while you’re waiting for the other guest to arrive?” The waiter placed an appetizer menu on the table. “The crispy calamari is excellent. The oysters are fresh and the mignonette is perfect.”

“The minn-yo what, please?” Angie asked.

“It’s a champagne sauce for the oysters. Lovely.”

“Of course, yes. I’ll have the oysters, please,” Angie said.

You better be on time, Rudy, or this dinner is going to cost you.

You may run out of money for bail, which you’ll need if this whole kidnap thing blows up.

The next forty-five minutes went by slowly. She tried to make the oysters last, but they were too tasty to ration. And only a half dozen. As she finished the last of the chardonnay in her glass, she called the waiter over.

“I need more oysters, same as these. And more wine too, same kind, only make it a bottle this time,” she said, with a frosty tone. “And I like it cold.”

“Of course, ma’am. Some of our patrons prefer the nicer chardonnays less chilled. They say the flavor opens up that way.

Would you like…”

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“I said cold, young man, and I meant exactly that. And when my lov…my companion arrives he will not be happy if I am unhappy with you.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be right back with your wine.”

After he returned with the chardonnay, a fresh glass and shaved ice in a silver wine bucket, he noticed Angie’s hand shook slightly when she tasted the new pour.

“It could be more chilled,” she snapped, “but I suppose it will do while the rest of the bottle gets cold enough.”

“Very good, ma’am,” the waiter said, scraping an imaginary bit of cork off the table and walking quickly away.

I hope her other person shows up soon. This lady is either mentally unstable or scared silly.

When Rudy arrived about thirty minutes later, he didn’t want anyone to see him in the drab grey Chevy. He skirted the valet parking area and put the rental in a self-park space away from the restaurant entrance, which would save him a few bucks in tips when he left, too.

“Yes, good evening,” Rudy said to the hostess, jostling a person or two as he eased to the front of the line at the reservations desk.

“My friend probably is already here, a thirty-something with a ponytail. I know, who wears a ponytail at her age, right?”

The hostess, a twenty-something with a butterscotch ponytail, gave Rudy a crooked look with a Did he really say that? expression. “Excuse me, sir, why not step away and have a look around the dining room for your companion?”

He saw Angie staring out the large windows at the tailored lawn that sloped down to the banks of the Chattahoochee River.

She squealed an “Oh my” giggle when Rudy sidled up behind her and put his hands over her eyes.

“Hi, Angie, started without me, did ya?” She turned and put her arms around his neck with a big hug.

“Rudy, you bad boy. I just tasted a little wine, but you’re here now and that’s great. We have scads to talk about. How do you think Brock is doing? I’m watching him. He can be a pain in the rear and he thinks he’s hot stuff, a hero, about to get us a million bucks for you-know-who’s release and he throws that gun around 165

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and he yells all the time and he won’t get a doctor for our guest’s really bad injury and…”

A couple at a nearby table couldn’t help staring at Angie as she rattled on, words colliding with each other, tossed and jumbled, in a burst of angst, fear and frustration. Rudy stifled his urge to bolt the building, run to the shit Chevy and find a poker game somewhere, anywhere but at that tony restaurant with Angie and her endless laundry list of woes and worries.

“Slow down, Angie, and keep your voice down too. Now, what do you mean, an injury? What injury?”

She clenched Rudy’s arm and slumped in her chair.

“Our guest was duct-taped to a chair and tried to attack Brock when he cut off a piece of her sable coat and she fell and damaged her ankle. It’s bad, Rudy. Brock is getting crazy with this stuff. We’re all afraid of him. Can you come to the house and set him straight and figure out how to get medical help for youknow-who?”

Rudy sat back, picked up Angie’s glass and chug-a-lugged most of the wine.

“Is the wine too warm for you, Rudy? I can get the waiter to chill it more…”

“Oh, shut up, Angie.”

He caught himself and apologized.

“Sorry, Ange, but all this injury bull is news to me. Let me think a minute.”

He finished the wine in her glass, then signaled the waiter who was hovering nearby hoping to take their orders and get them out of Ray’s as fast as possible. The server had seen tablefor-two combat before and smelled trouble ahead at theirs.

“I need a double Savannah Bourbon on the rocks,” Rudy frowned. “And bring this lady more wine.”

“Same wine, sir?” the waiter inquired.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. And make it fast. And bring me the check right away.”

“Of course, but wouldn’t you like to see our dinner menu?

It’s…”

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“Read my lips, my, whatever you are, international friend. I want the booze and the check. Period. Chop chop.”

The waiter suppressed his desire to stab Rudy in the neck with a salad fork. He speed-walked to the bar area, ordered the drinks and printed the tab.

“Sweetie, what are you thinking? Share with me,” Angie said, tugging lightly at Rudy’s cuff. “Let’s have a quiet dinner and some good conversation. We can work all this stuff out, right?”

Rudy leaned toward her and spoke in a sort of little girl voice, his head tilting side to side. “We can work all this out, Rudy” he mimicked. “We can work all this out, right, Rudy?”

He continued the mockery in a whispery rage.

“Angie, you only have one job in this deal. All I asked was for you to keep tabs on Brock, keep him calm and make sure he didn’t lose his cool or his temper. How’s that working out for you, Angie? Peachy, right? No. Wrong. I can’t, I won’t stand…oh hell, we can’t talk about this here. I don’t know…”

The waiter arrived with the bottle of Far Niente, popped the cork and started to pour.

“Hang on, there, pal. Put the cork back in it. We’re leaving and we’ll take the wine with us. And can we get the check in the next hour?”

The waiter handed the leather bill case to Rudy, who opened it as he retrieved a credit card. He read the bill a second time, looked up at the fidgety waiter and said, “Are you freaking kidding me? I think you have confused us with that table of NFL players over there.”

He tossed the bill onto the table. “Try again, Einstein. We had a cocktail and some wine.”

“And some oysters,” Angie said, slurring her words a little.

“And the Apple Valley wine was pricey,” she said. “I mean Napple Walley vine.”

The waiter shifted his weight, his hip jutting in disrespect.

“Sir, shall I ask the manager to come and discuss your bill?” he asked.

“Hell no, I’ve wasted enough time in this clip joint,” Rudy answered, in a voice loud enough for the sous chef to hear in 167

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the kitchen. Now Rudy was angry about everything, including Angie’s slide into blubbering. She was a DUI waiting to happen.

Rudy signed the tab, leaving the tip line blank. He stood, gripped Angie by the arm and walked toward the front. As he opened the door, the hostess said, “Sir, please leave that cocktail glass here. I’ll take it in for you.”

“Sure thing, doll, be right back,” Rudy said over his shoulder.

He half-carried Angie toward his self-parked car, pausing only to toss the glass down the grassy slope to the riverbank.

Angie pulled away from Rudy and pointed to the valet parking sign.

“My car, over that way, keys, valet…” she mumbled.

“Sorry, Angie, no time for that now. We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Come on.”

Like I’m going to waste time with that chore. Stupid cow. Let her figure it out.

“Hey, pal, could you keep this wreck of a car up front and ready? I might need it in about twenty minutes.” Rudy talked in a low voice to the attendant at the JW Marriott.

“It’s a loaner while my Jag is in the shop.” His voice grew quieter as he said to the doorman, “I need another favor, too. I’m from outta town. I bet you could steer me to a game, right? You know, a little Texas Hold ’Em, a little stud, whatever, some action, high stakes poker. Can you set me up?”

“Uh, sir, this is only my third night on the job. I don’t know…’

“Look, you know you can find what I need. I’m gonna check in here now and take my friend up to our suite, then I’ll be back down. There’s a fifty in it for you if you give me a good name, address and phone number, more if I come back here a winner.

Come on, ask some of the staff who’ve been here a while.”

His mouth open, the doorman stared a few seconds without blinking. Then he nodded and opened the door for Angie, whose head was back, her eyes closed. They lifted her out of the car. The doorman took her by the arm through the door and guided her to a seat in the lobby. She never said a word, sitting so still she could have passed for a sculpture or a still life painting discarded by the artist because he had ruined the hairline and forehead.

She looked more disheveled than delicate.

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Rudy checked in, then slowly, quietly moved her to the elevator, found the suite and deposited her in bed. Before he tiptoed out of the room, he took the eighty-five dollars in cash and her Visa card from her purse. Almost as an afterthought, he leaned over her and deftly removed her diamond earrings and slipped them in his shirt pocket.

Ho-hum stones, but I might need ’em where I’m going, and she won’t. *** Rudy stepped off the lobby elevator and saw his bellman standing on one foot, then the other, by a small sign noting the way to the fitness room and the business center.

“Sir, I have what you asked about, but I need another fifty for Joey. He can arrange a serious poker game right away.”

Rudy smiled and turned to go outside.

“In advance, sir. My fifty and Joey’s, too.”

“What, you don’t trust me?” Rudy acted incredulous, but put the fifty in the bellman’s palm.

“Of course I trust you, sir, but Joey said I need to learn something about the hotel bellman business.”

“What’s that?”

“Joey says to trust but verify. Says some president said it.”

“Good for Joey, but tell him that president isn’t on the money.”

“I will, sir. Joey also says you don’t need your car. The party’s at the Ritz around the corner on Peachtree. You can walk it from here in less than fifteen minutes. Joey has details.”

Rudy was happy not to have to explain away his shit Chevy at yet another valet parking facility. He made it on foot to the Ritz Carlton in less than ten minutes, excited to be approaching his next comfort zone, a classy poker game. It turned out to be a good fit, in contrast with the woeful failure he endured the previous evening in Naples.

The game had a day-night difference for him from the one that began with Ebony and Ivory and ended with snooty Evelyn, a barrel of bourbon and Game Over figuratively stamped on his 169

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sweaty forehead. Here the cards fell in his favor most of the time as his resolve to win increased.

“Another bourbon, sir?” asked a cool, but not hot hostess.

“Yes, but a single, Emily is it? A single. And more ice water, too, please.”

During the regular breaks for nibbles and drinks, Rudy made small talk with the other players in a low-pressure atmosphere.

I am winning. Winning big. I must be ahead at least double, maybe triple the nut. And I’m cold sober and it’s working. What has changed from the Naples nightmare? I did use Angie’s Visa card to buy in tonight. Is that an omen? And I have her diamond earrings. Good luck charms, are they? Maybe if I bet them I could clear the table a few times. But what if they only work in my pocket and not on the felt? Yeah, that’s probably it. I think I’ll save those for an emergency.

When Rudy finally decided to leave, he was up, way up, but the other players didn’t seem to care much.

Wonder why? Maybe they’re setting a trap, letting me win, thinking I’ll come back tomorrow for more and they can clean me out. I’m too smart for that.

Rudy tipped the hostess, shook hands with the other players and left the game sober. Only two bourbon-rocks all evening.

When he left the suite, he almost skipped down the hallway to the elevator, hut halfway to the ground level, he felt slightly nauseous.

It’s hunger. I ate almost nothing today and I am famished.

He asked the front desk clerk for a good place, a lively place to eat a late dinner.

“Landmark Diner. Good food, open all night. Lively action,” the clerk said. “Good bar, flat screen TVs, friendly crowd. A cab from here takes maybe ten minutes this time of night.”

“Perfect,” Rudy said as the taxi pulled up to the diner. He tipped the driver forty percent and asked for the cab company’s phone number for later.

The Landmark was about a third full with music blaring throughout, plus ESPN airing on a wall-mounted flat screen TV and Global News Service on an identical opposite TV. 170

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Rudy scanned the menu and stopped still when he saw a dish he remembered from many years ago.

“Liver and onions, please,” he told the waitress with a big smile. “With extra onions and double mashed potatoes. Is there enough liver in the kitchen this late?”

The server looked toward the ceiling with her index finder against her cheek, then looked back at Rudy. “I’d bet my baby girl on it, sir.”

“Great, and may I have a Savannah Bourbon on the rocks, please. Make it a double.”

What a great night. Some stuff to deal with tomorrow. Angie thing. And Brock. What a dick. He’s a loose cannon too. I guess it’s true, if you want something done right…”

Rudy’s liver and onions came in two waves. First, a bowl bulging with veggies and mashed potatoes, next the liver, smothered in onions.

Oh, man, I forgot how liver smells. Reminds me of Mom’s kitchen. We always knew in advance when she was making liver and onions for dinner. There never were enough onions to overpower the liver odor. For years I thought having liver was a sign of family money troubles. Or, maybe mom was a lousy cook.

Now I know better. Liver in this nice restaurant is as awful as it was in the Decker family kitchen.

Rudy quaffed the bourbon to dull his olfactory nerves and dug into the mashed potatoes.

I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. Ha. Maybe a liver, I mean.

Who knows? Naw, I’d rather think it’s a bear’s liver. I do have a soft spot in my heart for those bears. No matter. Nothing is going to spoil this great evening.

171

36 ATLANTA Rudy was finishing a large slice of pecan pie and halfway through his second double bourbon rocks when the ambient music in the room lowered. He looked around and was surprised to see only ten or fifteen customers, several of whom were at the bar, heads up, watching a ball game on a TV. The GNS eleven o’clock news hour was on its lead story on an opposite wall on another sixty-inch TV. He couldn’t hear the audio, but a reporter was standing on the White House lawn, saying something about something.

He’s probably talking about the end of the world, but reminding us that no public official has confirmed that event. They’ll have breaking new details, though. Now, half the country will be awake all night waiting for a News Alert.

Rudy was about to signal the server for his check when he saw the word MANHUNT on the TV screen behind a goodlooking female news anchor.

“Here in Atlanta and around the Southeast tonight, authorities are looking for a man wanted in connection with the murder earlier this week of TV news consultant Hunter Freeman. She was brutally stabbed to death in her home in Naples, Florida.

Police have a warrant for the arrest of this man,” the reporter said, “Rudy Decker, of Naples.”

Up came a full-screen photo of Rudy and Hunter at a charity ball in Naples several months earlier.

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Rudy slid slightly lower in his chair, fighting the normal reflex action to run.

Can’t panic. Keep it slow, pay the bill in cash, average tip. Go outside and hail a cab, don’t phone for one. Cash for the cabbie.

Watch out for security cameras at the hotel. Look down. Take the elevator to the third floor, walk up the rest. Make sure Angie’s still asleep. Leave her Visa card. She can pay the bill with it. In her name.

In the hotel room, Angie stirred in bed as Rudy shoved his few belongings into his bag. “Rudy, wha? Wass happen…”

“Shhhhh, Ange, go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.”

She raised one arm listlessly, trying to point but only waved briefly.

“You need your rest,” Rudy said, opening her purse and removing a small bottle of sleep-aid capsules he had noticed earlier when he was taking her cash and credit card.

“Take this. Here’s some water. This’ll make you feel better.

No, take two. Swallow, There, there.”

The hotel’s night valet brought his grey Chevy around, grinned at the eight-dollar tip and resumed his attempt win big on Final Fantasy, the classic video iPhone game. *** The lighted sign along the interstate highway displayed upcoming lodging choices. Rudy slowed and exited. After an hour at the wheel, he was eager to get off the road and out of sight. He estimated he was ninety minutes south of his morning destination.

Right now, The Forty ZZZ’s it is. Funny name, odd. The parking lot is almost empty. Getting a room shouldn’t be a problem.

“Jones, Larry Jones,” Rudy said to the night clerk at the Forty ZZZs. She looked up from her iPad, where she was scanning a website revealing the many ways to cook with weasel.

“Yes, we have rooms available tonight, Mr. Jones. Smoking or non-smoking?”

“Non-smoking, king-size bed,” Rudy said.

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“We have, let me see, yes we have non-smoking double beds or smoking king bed rooms, whichever you prefer.”

“I’d like a king non-smoking.”

“Sir, we have king smoking or double non-smoking.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take non-smoking queens, double beds, I mean.”

The night clerk whispered across the check-in counter, “You can push the two queens together and nobody will know. But, don’t forget to put them back when you, ya’all, whatever, leave tomorrow.” In her regular voice, she asked how early Rudy would be leaving.

“Not sure yet. Could I stay an extra day if I need to?”

“Yessir, you can, but most of our guests don’t.”

Rudy didn’t either. He was up and away by eight a.m., doubting he achieved any zzzzs at all. The sheets were stiff as wallboard, the blankets crunchy as peanut brittle. Not only that, the hotel name, Forty ZZZs, gave him a sour stomach, or it could have been the liver and onions.

The plan was simple. Snatching Nikki Z off the street, reasonable negotiations, a handful of gullible helpers, a decent ransom, that’s it. The TV station would cancel its investigation into our bearpoaching enterprise. Their pain-in-the-ass anchorwoman would be a hero. Spring and Summer would go back to Oz or wherever.

Brock and Angie would tumble into a muskrat love scenario.

Should be easy. But, no. There I was again, on TV with Hunter.

WANTED it said. Wanted my ass. Hounded is more like it.”

As Rudy drove north on the Interstate highway, he checked the time on his phone and punched in a number.

“Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures. It’s gonna be another day of adventures here. Want to join us?” Gary Shanklin said.

“Hello, Smokey Bear,” Rudy said. “Only I can prevent wildfires.”

“This is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you this cool morning?”

“Truth is, I’d like to get away for a few days,” Rudy said. ”You know, change of pace, maybe have some down time, chill out, all that. Thought you might know of a cabin in the woods, off 174

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the beaten track, where I can relax, unwind, cool my jets, hang loose.”

“Sure,” Gary said. “We can work something out. Clearly you need a change. You’re talking ninety miles an hour and you sound like you swallowed a thesaurus.”

“No, I really want to get out of the rat race. Wait, there I go again.”

Gary gave Rudy directions to his combination home and business less than two hours away. Rudy relaxed and turned on the radio for some music.

A couple of tunes in, an old song with a familiar ring to it wafted over Rudy as his much maligned Chevy ate up the miles to where he hoped to relax and retool. The lyrics didn’t help.

“Anyone can see you are only a man on the run.

In and out of trouble you are only a man on the run.

Everyone has their level and everyone has their price.

So keep away from the devil and keep away from the dice.

You’re only a man on the run, a man on the run.”

Or something like that. At the point when only one thing could soothe his soul and ease the mind of this Man on the Run: a game. *** The next morning, Angie felt leaden, flattened as though some monster with a giant spade had spread her pain throughout her body like fertilizer on a turnip patch. Her mind told her to ease out of bed, assess the situation and, most of all, figure out why she was stranded at the hottest place on earth, the Atacama Desert. She knew it was in Chile. People who watch NatGeo on TV know such things. Her resolve melted when she realized standing up was an alien concept. She slid back under the covers, comforted by the sensation of closing her eyes. Forty minutes later she awoke with a start, still parched and headachy, but not on fire.

“Rudy?” No answer. Slowly she realized he and his things were gone. No note. She saw her cell phone on the nightstand 175

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and moved to the side of the bed. When she called, Rudy did not answer. Her message was halting, anger and fear fighting for dominance.

“Rudy, call me immediately. I am ill and disoriented and don’t know what to do. My car’s at Ray’s on the River. I must get back to the house, you know what I mean. I can’t believe you left me here. Where are you? Call me, please, Rudy. Please.”

Angie shook as she put down the cell and reached for the hotel room phone.

“Tea and toast, please. Tea, yes. Pardon? Do you have breakfast blend? Yes. For one. And a large pitcher of ice water.

Thank you.”

She lay back on the bed and clicked the TV remote, flipping through the good, the bad and the tacky of daytime television.

On the sixth click she saw the familiar Global News Service logo.

“We have breaking new details on the kidnapping of Atlanta TV news anchor Nikki Zachos from GNS’s crime and corruption correspondent, Cassandra Page.”

“A police manhunt is underway for a fugitive named Rudy Decker. He is wanted in the murder of the last person to see Nikki Z before she was abducted and held for ransom four nights ago.

The victim was Hunter Freeman, a TV news consultant whom I personally saw having dinner with Ms. Freeman in an Atlanta restaurant the evening Nikki Z vanished…”

As Cassie told the story, photos of Rudy filled the screen, followed by graphic photos of the crime scene at Hunter Freeman’s apartment in Naples, Florida. Angie was dumbstruck.

Her eyes welled with tears, her shoulders sagged and her mind raced through some ugly territory.

I’m an accomplice, I guess. Rudy you son of a bitch what have you done to me? Who’s next, me? Are you going to kill me too, you lying, stinking, phony, faker bastard?

A knock at the door interrupted Angie’s emotional frenzy.

“Room service.”

“Please use your passkey to come in,” Angie said from the bed. “I am not feeling well.”

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The waiter entered, arranged the tea service, put the bill on the tray and asked, “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

“No, thank you,” Angie said, eager to have the waiter leave.

“Could you please sign the bill?

“Of course, and let me get my purse for a cash tip. You do prefer that, I assume.”

“That would be fine ma’am.”

She opened her purse, retrieved the small wallet and found it empty. “Oh dear, my cash is missing,” Angie said, befuddled.

“No problem, ma’am, you need not tip. But if you insist, you can write it on the bill. Perfectly acceptable.”

She added about twenty percent for the tea and toast and another twenty percent for her self-imposed embarrassment tax.

As the waiter left, Angie noticed a piece of white paper on the floor near the door, the bill for the room including the tea and toast.

Alone and dry-eyed, the toast consumed and most of the tea, Angie felt well enough to phone Rudy again. His answering service took the call. Angie left no message.

Stay calm. Don’t cry. I need this twisted coward’s help a little longer.

Forty minutes later Angie had showered, her long hair washed and ponytailed, her overnight bag readied. Presentable, if feeling prickly and exhausted.

“Will you be checking out now, madam?” the desk clerk asked with a perky smile.

“Oh no, my friend will be back within the hour to check out and pay the bill. His name is Decker, Rudy Decker. He wants the bill in his name. Decker. I do need a taxi, one that takes credit cards. May I order one?”

“At once, madam. Your destination?”

177

37 ATLANTA - GNS “Max. Hi. Got a minute?” Cassie stood at the open door of Executive Producer Max Ippolito’s office at GNS headquarters in downtown Atlanta.

“Sure, Cassie, come on in. You’ve been on a whirlwind already this morning.”

“Yeah, three live reports since seven, but nothing really new in the last two.”

What’s up?”

“I know you want to stay out front on this story, Max, but I need several hours to dig a little, press some sources. There’s more to it, but there are a zillion media types from all over in town now. I need to make some end runs, throw a Hail Mary pass. Now, how many clichés will it take to get me some time out of the office today?”

“Not out of town now, right?”

“Not today, no, but if what is happening is what I think is happening, I’ll have to make a road trip in a few days.”

“We need notice on that, Cass. I know you have carte blanche on this and that’s fine. But, she knows the bottom line is having you on the air, live, from here or somewhere, every day, sometimes every hour. I know you like to get dirty and snoop around and you’re as good at that as anybody. But one Cassandra Page on the air live is worth a hundred other newsies in the bush.

I can’t believe I said that…”

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“Thanks. If you can ever pry yourself away from your big chief chair here at headquarters, join me in the field sometime.”

“I dream about that, dream about it. Joining you in a field.”

“Not in a field, Max, in the field.”

“Gotcha. Only kidding. Love you long time. Now go sprout some news exclusives somewhere and be back here by six for a long evening of live coverage. You own this Nikki Z story, Cass.

Stay on it.” *** Cassie phoned Jimmy before she was out of Max’s eyesight.

“You and I, right now, somewhere tranquil where we can talk, away from big ears.”

“All right, Lois Lane. How about at home?”

“No, outdoors. I need trees and nature and space for some deep breaths.”

“All right, Piedmont Park is close, convenient…”

“Hey, first of all, could you lose that ‘Lois Lane’ crap for once?

I mean, how about thinking up something original to call me, like, oh I don’t know, maybe my name. Would that suit you, Detective?”

“What’s with the sarcasm, Cassandra? Can we have a civilized conversation now, wherever you say?”

“Yeah,” Cassie replied, “but not in the park. “How about the zoo?”

They met at the zoo entrance on Cherokee Avenue and began a stroll through the African Plains area, moving slowly to avoid catching up with a boisterous bunch of kids on a class field trip.

On an otherwise quiet day at the zoo, Jimmy and Cassie relaxed.

They passed the warthog area, saw a few meerkats, a rhino and a zebra.

“Jimmy, listen to me. I need more from you. I love you, but I have to break out of the media mob here. I need an Emmy Award caliber exclusive, bombshell, a scoop.”

“Wait a second, who gave you the ransom exclusive and…”

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“Don’t start that now,” Cassie interrupted. “I do get some advance notice from you, but you deliver those little nibbles reluctantly. What am I supposed to think?”

“Think whatever you want, but if I ever get caught sharing confidential police information with you, the next things I’ll be sharing with you will be my grilling by the PD Internal Affairs section and my dismissal notice. There’s a story for you, but it wouldn’t be exclusive for long. I can see it on the air now ‘This Breaking News, a Cassandra Page Exclusive. Now here’s Cassandra.’ There you’d be on flat screen TVs in every bar and doctors’ waiting room in town, reading the news off the Teleprompter, while in the back of your mind, you’re planning your speech at the Emmy Awards. You’ll be teary, thanking the Academy, your mom and your hair stylist. And me? I’ll be employed as a greeter at the Army/Navy Surplus Mart near Slicklizzaard, Alabama. What do you think, Cassie?”

Her face looked as though he slapped had her. Shock, surprise. The words stung.

Cassie walked back a few yards the way they came. Tears blurred her vision. She tried to focus on the exotic animals. A giraffe looked down and blinked. A bongo peered out of a heavy, dense forest-like patch, looking half-asleep.

“Mind your own business, Mr. Antelope or whatever you are,” Cassie said under her breath. Jimmy walked over and stood nearby.

“Look, I’m sorry if I sounded harsh, Cass. I don’t mean to.

But we have almost nothing on the kidnapping and I’m starting to feel the grumbling from the top brass at the cop shop, not to mention the media. You can see why I’m a little itchy.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “Can we go to the north Georgia mountains tomorrow or the next day? Nikki’s producer, RoAnn, agrees there may be some connection between Nikki’s abduction and a big-time bear-killing operation. I told you that before.

When can we go? We can be back here in two hours, less if we use a helicopter.”

“Cass, I cannot leave the Nikki case right now, period. And I can’t imagine your bosses at GNS letting you wander off up there either.”

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“Watch me, Copper. Watch me. Now shall we walk back to our cars without arguing? What a concept.”

As Cassie and Jimmy neared the exit to the zoo, a piercing wail startled them.

“What is that and where is that?” Cassie asked. “Sounded like a person crying for help. A person with a southern accent.”

“I don’t see anybody,” Jimmy said as he did a three-sixty survey.

HAY-UP. “There, over there by that railing in the shade,” Cassie said, pointing. “Peacocks, two of them. Beautiful. Noisy, but great looking birds.”

“Man, they are loud. Wonder if we could train them to do that when we need a tornado alert somewhere in town,” Jimmy said.

“Or maybe make that noise when a chattering TV anchor prattles on,” Cassie said, unable to suppress a smile, but he was not yet finished being angry with Jimmy.

They exchanged half-hearted cheek kisses and left the zoo in their own cars. Ten minutes longer together and they’d be saying goodbye with a stilted handshake. *** Man, talk about driven. Talk about self-absorbed.

Jimmy thought about Cassie. He seldom was more than a blink away from thinking about her to some degree.

But this time, strong words, weak pecks on the cheek, hurt feelings, this isn’t routine stuff. Not like, “No, it’s your turn to bring home Chinese food.” Or, “Why do we both have to attend the stupid condo meetings?” This is more, picking at scabs for fun. She makes me uncomfortable and it’s hard to shake off. Sort of like a cold that lasts two weeks no matter what remedies I try - zinc, drink, nasal spray, One A Day, nothing works. Our quiet talks veer into pointyedged, point-scoring jousts.

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demanded hard work and excellence in return. Before she turned thirteen, Cassie was helping them in the Opera House Diner, a breakfast and lunch restaurant they owned in a busy commercial area of Galveston, Texas. Working long hours before and after school, Cassie often daydreamed about being a celebrity chef one day, or maybe a successful restaurateur. Her major at the University of Texas in Austin was business. But, while dating a reporter for the school paper, The Daily Texan, she caught the media bug, pestered the editor until she finally scored a job. A few boyfriends later, she decided TV news would be more fun than print and pay better.

So, she changed her major to communications and graduated with a degree in electronic journalism. Cassie realized crime and violence often dominated local TV news so she focused on that specialty and earned an entry-level reporting job at an Austin station. Within a year she was known as the Good and Evil crime reporter. A year later she was on a local station in Atlanta and soon after, the big job at Global News Service and nationwide fame. *** Cassie reviewed their brief conversation at the zoo. She felt let down and used up.

He’s belittling me. That’s a first and I hate it. He’s a rising star at Atlanta PD. I get that. My help was crucial, especially with our work last year on the multiple murders in the battle over control of Global News Service. Boy, does he have a short memory. All I want is to combine our skills and influence to benefit both of us.

He usually is down to earth, realistic. But maybe his fancy Chief of Detectives badge is melting, leaking a gallon of ego into his big chief bloodstream.

Hope not. I can go it alone if I have to. After all, I was a celebrity on TV before that movie star was impaled on the TV truck microwave pole. I owned that story, hands down. We both did. Of course I still love Jimmy. But I don’t like him much these days, like this. We need to haul ass back to the way we were.

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*** “Great, exactly what we need,” Jimmy said, irritated as he stopped at the gated entrance to the Channel 4 studios. Fifty or so people were blocking the left side of the driveway. Some carried signs on sticks: “SOS - Save our Sables” “NoMoreFurOrNoMoreNikki” “COPS - Collars On People Not Critters” Others in the clutch of anti-Nikki zealots lit candles on the shoulder of the road, but they were not effective because a breeze prevailed most of the time. With hours of daylight left, the protesters were left to curse the lack of darkness.

Across the driveway leading to the Channel 4 building, about twenty pro-Nikki demonstrators were in animated conversation, dithering over what a shirt-and-tie guy was calling the “optics of our vigil.” They displayed one sign, more of a flag, at least fiveby-seven feet in size, navy and gold cloth with tassels, looking like it came from Vistaprint. The name Nikki Z was emblazoned on one side, “Our Million Dollar Militint! Cheap at Twice the Price!” on the other.

“It’s misspelled, you halfwits,” said one agitated woman in a came-straight-from-tennis outfit. “And she’s not a militant.

Maybe a little fanatical about fur, but who isn’t in these troubled times?” She seemed like a leader in search of a flock. She started a chant, but it was slow going.

“Listen to me, hear my plea. Nikki Z, she’s for me,” she shouted over and over. A few others joined in; a couple of them raising their hands the way a cheerleader exhorts a crowd. Most were limited to mumbled versions, “Nikki Z, uh, Z’s for Nikki, I’m for Nikki… and fur…”

The Nikki boosters trickled away toward their cars, saying they were late picking up the kids from soccer, lacrosse and afterschool detention.

Jimmy navigated his unmarked car through a gap in the clumps of demonstrators. He ignored shouts from two TV news cameramen, parked in the porte cochère and headed for the front 183

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door. One image stayed with him as he walked into the Channel 4 building: a girl, maybe thirteen, with the pro-Nikki group. carried a foot-long stuffed animal. It was a sable.

Doubt I’ve ever seen a real sable before. At least not a live one.

We did see Nikki wearing her sable that night at the restaurant. She was alive. Then.

Jimmy walked into the news director’s office as DK talked with the police technician about the phone recording on the side table.

“What do you have, DK? Hear from the bad guys lately?”

“If timing makes champions, Jimmy, you’re an all-star. That PAP idiot called twenty minutes ago and said he’d call back about now.”

“Have anything for him? Money? A deal on the other things, the fur-burning BS? Anything?”

“We don’t, Jimmy. And between us, I think…”

“Hey Mike, take ten,” Jimmy said to the technician officer.

“We’ll holler if they call before then.”

“You were about to say, DK?” “I think some people involved in this mess are enjoying it and don’t mind if it lasts a while.”

“Jesus, DK who’re you talking about? Your blood brothers in the news media? Advertisers who are paying anything to buy commercial airtime between your newscasts to capture all the new eyeballs watching Channel 4? I’ll bet their new tires or used cars or whatever is selling like crazy. I am shocked, SHOCKED, I tell you.”

“Jimmy, please…”

“All right, all right, I don’t mean to be rude but it’s frustrating.

I’m catching flak from my chief. He phoned me four times yesterday. He’s hearing it from his bosses at City Hall who are nervous and want this over with. Our leads are few and flimsy.

Every day this goes on the chance of disaster goes up. Any movement on the idea of paying ransom?” Jimmy asked. “Or some of it, making a deal with these guys?”

“No, if he was thinking about paying a million dollar ransom, Otis would want to let this ride to gain another week or two of super viewer ratings.”

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“Does he realize how dangerous that would be, not to mention how stinking immoral and potentially criminal?”

“Jimmy, we…”

“Don’t ‘Jimmy’ me, DK,” Jimmy said, raising his voice. “You may work for cynical bastards but I have a couple in my rear view mirror, too, and, as the cliché goes, objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.”

“What can I do to convince my bosses to step up?” DK asked.

“Something dramatic, DK. Something sensible, effective and fast, mostly fast.”

“What’s wrong, Jimmy. Do the cops know something we don’t know here?”

“Lots, DK, but not about this case specifically. I’m having a bad day but I’ll deal with it soon.”

The phone rang. It was Brock.

“Hello, my penny-pinching phone buddies,” Brock said. “Are you still refusing to pay our ransom demand for the return of your beloved TV newsie?”

“It’s you again, Mr. Pap,” DK said. “How clever you are to have gleaned that tidbit of intelligence.” Again, DK hoped to get a hit on the location of Brock’s cell phone before he could ring off and toss it.

“We need to talk, Mr. Pap, and I…” “You bet we do and fast. I’ll go first,” Brock barked into the phone. “Ransom is the magic word. A million bucks and you can have Nikki Z back before dinner. A ‘no’ answer means more misery for that fur-loving freak. In fact, Mr. Newsman, a few more days in our custody and the Z part of her name will stand for Zombie.”

“What do you mean?” DK asked angrily. “Is she hurt or ill?

Better not be or we will overreact on your ass and ask forgiveness later.”

“Blah, blah, blah, I don’t need your sarcasm, DK. Let’s talk business.”

“First, prove to us Nikki Z is alive and well. Put her on the phone. Now.” Brock grabbed the day’s edition of the Atlanta Journal and Constitution and held it up to Nikki’s face.

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“Nikki will now read a few lines to you from today’s AJC, with the day and date. No video, voice only. And Nikki,” Brock said menacingly, “no funny business or we’ll turn your sable coat into a fanny pack. Tell them you’re upset because they don’t think you’re worth a million dollars. Tell ’em how that feels,” Brock said.

“Hello, this is Nikki Z. I am not well. I’m reading from the Neighborhood section of today’s paper, as instructed.” She said the day and date clearly, then turned to Brock and whispered, “Can I say how much I want to go home and hope they’ll arrange that?”

“Yeah, maybe that’ll convince them to cough up the money,” Brock whispered back.

“One more thing, Mr. Jack.” Nikki said. “Please, sir, if at all possible, can you be sure to get me free so I don’t miss my role as mistress of ceremonies at the big Beastly Feast gala at the zoo. It’s a few blocks, oh, I mean a few days away. Please.””

Brock snatched the cell phone from Nikki. “We at PAP will call you again in six hours,” Brock said. “I hope you agree to our demands by then. Ta ta.”

186

38 ATLANTA DK slammed his phone handset on the table.

“They say Nikki’s hurt. This PAP guy is coming unhinged.

The media is so hungry for headlines they might choose sides and start a street riot to have something to cover.”

Jimmy laughed, easing the tension a bit.

“I can see it now, DK. Your team, Channel 4, against Channel 33. Across the park, News8 is thrashing Channel 7. Fighting hand-to-hand combat at Phipps Plaza are the News9 sports staffers versus the OnYourSide13 weather and traffic stalwarts.”

“Brilliant, Jimmy,” DK laughed. “Maybe we should arrange something like that after we get through this Nikki circus.”

The door opened and the station’s Creative Services director, Zoe, rushed in.

“The circus has gone global, DK. Hi, Detective. You thought I was nuts with my idea for a Bingo-type game based on the Nikki kidnapping. Ha. Listen to this. Social media are alive with secret pop-up betting games, sort of like office pools. People are betting on the date and time when Nikki will be released. Or whether.

Yep. One of these hit-and-run games called Nikki’s Ground Zero has three categories – She Lives, She Dies, Time of Death. A few of the games are including fur coats among winning prizes.”

“Are these all over the Internet?” Jimmy asked “Viral’s the word, Detective,” Zoe said. “Viral. I saw on a blog that some schools are shutting down their Internet access 187

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because kids as young as middle school were playing, making bets.”

“Thank you, Zoe,” DK said, “for making us all want to resign from the human race. Do you have any more good news we can report on Channel 4?”

“No, not exactly,” Zoe said slowly, breaking eye contact with DK. “Spill, Zoe,” DK said. “What could be worse?”

“The names of several of our staffers here at Channel 4 have been seen on those Nikki life and death Internet betting websites.”

“All right, Zoe, thanks for the updates. Keep those promotional messages going night and day, but please leave out any mention of the office pool outrage.”

“Yes, sir.” As Zoe reached the door, she turned and said over her shoulder, “Oh, FYI, they asked about photos of Nikki we might have on hand. Then, they actually said, ‘We’d like to have her autograph. You never know...’”

“Out. Now.” DK snarled, kicking the door closed. *** Jimmy sat in a chair across from DK, shaking his head.

“Let’s run the audio again of the PAP guy’s call.” he said.

“It’ll be a relief from the past twenty minutes. If I carried a handkerchief, I’d wipe my brow with it. Or throw up into it.”

“I was distracted a little, too,” DK said. “She said something about a neighborhood.”

The tech cued the audio to that part of the recording.

“I am reading from the Neighborhood section of today’s paper, as instructed.”

“Stop for a sec,” Jimmy said. “Her voice sounds weak, tired, un-Nikki. Now, keep going, please.”

“No, wait,” DK said, leaning in. “Repeat that part again.”

“I am reading from the Neighborhood section of today’s…”

“There. ‘Neighborhood.’ She said ‘neighborhood.’ Then, she said, ‘as instructed.’”

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DK paced the small office several times, then asked, “Why would she emphasize the section of the paper, the Neighborhood section? And why would she say, ‘as instructed?’”

“Hold those thoughts, DK,” Jimmy said. “Go to where she said something about hoping not to miss her celebrity thing as emcee at the Zoo Atlanta gala.”

Jimmy and DK listened. “…get me free so I don’t miss my role as mistress of ceremonies at the Beastly Feast gala at the zoo. It’s only a few blocks, oh, I mean, a few days away.’

“That’s it. Stop, please,” Jimmy said.

“Is that full of possible messages from Nikki or what?” DK asked.

“Trouble is, DK, it sounds almost too pat.”

“Yeah, it does. Let’s go back to the first part, about the neighborhood section.”

Jimmy and DK listened to the recording a dozen times, a few phrases repeatedly.

They each wrote down their opinion of the key words and compared. A no-brainer. “Neighborhood. Go home. Emcee the Beastly Feast. A few blocks, I mean days away.”

Jimmy’s phone sounded. His assistant, Margaret spoke. “Hi, Jimmy. Do you need rescuing from whatever you’re up to?”

“M,” as he called her, was good at that.

“It’s always a thrill when you call, M, but you tell me whether I should be somewhere. Are the barbarians at the gate? Does Chief Lutz want my badge back? Or did I win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes?”

“All in good time, Jimmy, all in good time. You have three real phone messages, one from Detective Graham in Naples and two from Cassie. She’s been on the air live this afternoon more often than Law and Order reruns.”

“Good news, M. That means she won’t have time to fret about me for awhile.”

“Should I worry or celebrate or call 9-1-1 or go home and organize my sock drawer and await further instructions?”

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“Funny, M. No, really. It was funny. I’m wheel-spinning here now and I have an important project to organize in a hurry. I’ll call you back from the car. Meanwhile, please get me a printout of the uniform duty roster for Southeast Atlanta starting from the latest shift change. I’m going to need plenty of officers actively patrolling in that area ASAP. Talk to you in a few minutes.” *** Jimmy drove carefully past the handful of demonstrators outside Channel 4 and was heading south when his phone rang again.

“Detective Hagan, Jimmy, hey, this is Sam Graham, Naples PD. I have an update on the DNA tests at the state lab, about the red substance the lady wiped off the neck of Rudy Decker the night Heather Freeman was murdered. We’ll have the results by tomorrow or the next day.”

“How’d that happen, Sam? You said normally it takes weeks or months. Do you have a special friend at the lab?” Jimmy asked.

“No, they’re professionals there. But I have spent time with one lab lady who likes my forearms.”

“Your what? Your forearms? I don’t…”

“Let it go, Jimmy, it’s a good thing. You know how men and women take a liking to certain features of the opposite sex?

Remember that rap song, I like big butts and I cannot lie? And you, Jimmy, aren’t you a boobs guy or a leg man?”

“I guess, yeah, the first one.”

“Boobs, jugs, bazoombas?”

“No, large rear ends, but, wait a sec, what does this have to do with, I mean…”

“Exactly, Jimmy,” Sam said. “I met a guy once who was into ear lobes. Go figure. Anyway this gal at the DNA lab is a forearms freak, but only certain ones. Believe me, Jimmy, I studied my forearms most of one weekend and have no idea what that’s about. But, hey, if the forearm fascination leads to faster DNA reports, ya know?”

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“You lost me with bazoombas, Sam. But, if the DNA from the handkerchief is Hunter Freeman’s, that puts Rudy Decker at the crime scene, doesn’t it?”

“Pretty much, if the timeline works. And we have a couple of other leads. A Delta flight attendant phoned our office this morning, says Decker was on her plane, an Atlanta trip. Says he’d been rode hard and put up wet. Her words.”

“Sam, if you could saddle up and head over to whatever ranch that flight attendant lives on…”

“Nope, sorry, cowboy, but she lives in Atlanta. Why not have your posse track her down, then amble on over and pay her a visit yourself, Jimmy?”

“Maybe I’ll do that if the creek don’t rise. Sam, are we finished with this John Wayne cowboy talk?”

“One more thing, partner. If she’s nervous talking to a cop, flash your forearms a little.”

“Maybe,” Jimmy said, “but I’d go to that strategy as a last resort, and only do one forearm. Don’t want her to stroke out.” *** “Chief of Detectives James Hagan’s office, Margaret speaking.”

“Hi, M. I’ve been talking with Detective Graham in Naples.

Bottom line, all signs point to Decker as being in the Atlanta area now. Also, we will get DNA soon probably putting him at the crime scene in Naples the night of Ms. Freeman’s murder. What do you have?”

“We have maps of the zoo area and surrounding neighborhood for you, five copies enlarged. Plus, I finagled ten uniforms to walk that vicinity for several hours. You decide time and route, and all that. But you mean tonight, right?”

“Yep. And I need to talk to the group all at once. Can you arrange the large room on the third floor? Oh, and can you stay until they all deploy?”

“I can, but need to run out for ten or fifteen minutes now. Be back before you get here.”

“Cool. And M, a question, in confidence.”

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“Shoot. I mean…”

“I know, I know. No, it’s only, have you ever heard of women being attracted sexually to a man’s forearms?”

Margaret paused a few seconds, hoping he would not continue talking.

“Have you, M? The forearms? We all understand muscles or six-pack abs or chest hair or lack of any hair or tight jeans bulging here or there, but forearms?”

“Jimmy, are you serious? You are talking girl-boy, right?

Because I have never heard of female-male forearm fetish. Not man-love forearm fantasy either. And it’s definitely not in my list of top ten hot spots to explore on a potential lover. Is there a problem here, Jimmy?”

“No, no, it’s…I’ll ask Cassie about it, if she’s still speaking to me.”

“If she is,” Margaret said, “roll up your sleeves and see if her eyes flutter.”

192

39 NORTH GEORGIA MOUNTAINS Gary Shanklin smelled a rat. He didn’t believe what Rudy said on the phone about wanting to relax for a few days in the mountains.

Gimme a break. That guy is coming up here to hang out in a rustic cabin? Bull. Is it possible he thinks we don’t have satellite TV up here? Facebook? Does he think those stupid passwords are cool, Smokey Bear and Only You Can Prevent Wildfires? What is he, twelve years old? What a joke. Should I let him know there are “Have You Seen This Man?” signs in some highway rest stop bathrooms? Good question. How should I play this? Hide him and then make him pay me to keep my mouth shut? What if I lock him up for use later? Like a bargaining chip with law enforcement for future favors. I’ll put him up in the small cabin beyond the chicken coops. Yeah, keep him near the house, where Earl can keep watch on him. Close watch. I’ll tell Earl I don’t quite trust Rudy.

That’ll motivate Earl. Rudy will think we’re being helpful hosts. I’ll consider him a hostage.

Rudy saw the sign announcing Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures and he relaxed. He parked next to the Adventures part of the sign, honked the horn, got out and stretched his arms, torso and legs. An overall cramp proved Rudy had made most of the trip squeezing the steering wheel like an Ultimate Fighter.

His neck sounded like Rice Krispies when he twisted left and right, and his right leg felt imbedded into the gas pedal.

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“What’s the matter, old man, life on the road too much for you?” Gary said, pushing open the screen door and grinning a welcome that made Rudy relax a little.

“This low-rent rental car delivered me here in one piece,” Rudy laughed, “but it’s a Model-T compared to my own ride in Naples. Anyway, how are you, Smokey Bear?”

They swapped jabber for a few minutes as Gary grabbed Rudy’s roller tote and led him to a cabin.

“I think you’ll be comfortable here for a day or two, and after that I’ll arrange a place deeper in the woods if you want to play Daniel Boone for awhile.”

“Great. Aren’t there other people around, tourists or day trippers?”

“Sure, but it’s not the main tourist season yet. Visitors will show up here, but mostly they’re poking around the bush, enjoying nature.”

“No hunters this time of year?” Rudy asked. “Not even for snakes? Hummingbirds?”

Gary was not amused. If you cause me any trouble here, it’ll be your gall bladder in the baggie.

“No, Rudy, most folks limit their take to four-legged mammals. Or two-legged ones, if it’s a righteous target.”

Rudy scratched his right cheek, yawned and told Gary he needed a nap.

Before closing the cabin door, Rudy, pretending it was an afterthought, asked, “You have any drive-thru food joints nearby?

And a drive-in liquor store?”

194

40 ATLANTA P.D. Jimmy walked into a full house at the Atlanta police headquarters conference room. A quick head count showed fourteen men and women, a few at the large oval table, others standing along the walls. All were in uniform except Jimmy and two other detectives.

“This will be a short meeting. There, it’s almost over,” he said, drawing bated laughter. Some of the younger officers weren’t sure whether laughing was allowed at meetings with the chief of detectives. Besides, a low-octane rumor was trickling through the building hinting Chief Hagan was preoccupied, sometimes a little aloof, other times abrupt. Jimmy had heard the chat.

Funny thing. The noticeable symptoms were real. But it’s not the cops and robbers bugging me. It’s Cassie. She’s becoming a hard case. Maybe a bit of a head case as well.

“We’re all going to the zoo,” Jimmy said. Same tentative smiley murmurs.

“We will go individually until dark, then in pairs. Your job is to represent community policing. Engage pedestrians, people getting in or out of vehicles, anybody in their yards or on their porches. Be casual but thorough. If a woman is lugging groceries, help her. Keep the chat normal but watch for anxiety or fear in her demeanor. Talk to kids. Assure them you’re not there to bust anybody. Ask folks whether they’ve seen any strangers or suspicious people or cars in the neighborhood.”

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“Chief, a question, please?” Jimmy nodded.

“Sir, maybe I missed it, but what exactly are we looking for?”

“Good question, Officer …”

“Tanner, sir, Theresa Tanner.”

“Sorry, Officer Tanner, I completely overlooked the point of this exercise.”

She looks like Cassie. Same complexion, a tad lighter maybe, about the same height, similar hairstyle, eyes I can see flashing from here. Stop it.

“Let me backtrack. We are looking for information on the whereabouts of Nikki Z, the TV newsperson who was abducted a few days ago. As you know, she is being held for ransom. We think she could be in the neighborhood around the zoo. It feels that way from calls to us from the alleged kidnappers.

“Several hundred houses are within three blocks of the zoo. We hope to at least pass by all of them this evening. If you find anything or anybody that could be helpful in this search, call in at once. Use your cell phones, not the radio. Nosy media are everywhere on this story. Also, have photos in your phones of Ms. Zachos, the news lady, and also a fugitive in this case named Rudy Decker. He is a murder suspect. Show the photos to everybody you talk to. And, if you get a good lead or have a citizen with serious information, call my office.”

196

41 GRANT PARK NEIGHBORHOOD - ATLANTA Dr. Quintavious Vine would have preferred to be working on a Sumatran tiger than the warthog whose tusks he was examining, but he was outranked by two other Zoo Atlanta veterinarians who specialized in exotic animals.

Dr. Q’s place in the pecking order was largely age-related. He was twenty-eight; the two other vets seemed as happy as baby otters to remain, in career terms, laterally mobile.

Dr. Q liked his job, too, but he wanted more. More money, more fame, more followers and more real friends rather than those Twitter and Facebook provide. He thought of becoming some sort of TV show super veterinarian. For years,he enjoyed watching Cesar on the Dog Whisperer.

I could do that. And I’m taller and better looking than Cesar. Trouble is, I’d have to use a different species. The Warthog Whisperer? Who’s going to watch me calm or cure those ugly pigs?

Dr. Q discussed his career dreams now and then with Summer, the pretty girl who worked part-time at the zoo. They went out for coffee a time or two during the winter and seemed to get along great, but it never moved past the finger-flutter handholding and the brief, brushing kisses that were more Hershey than hot.

Wish Summer would answer my calls or texts. Been two weeks and no contact. She must be busy getting ready for the Beastly Feast.

“Hi, Q,” Summer said in a chirpy way, barely loud enough for the vet to hear her from the fence surrounding the warthog pen.

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“Time for coffee? Been way too long and I’m sorry but I’ll tell you all about it, all right?”

Dr. Q subdued his urge to say something snippy to her about ignoring him without a nod or a note, and he also tightened his grip on the warthog’s right upper tusk in case the sedation wore off while he was paying attention to Summer.

“You mean now? I still have three tusks to clean, check out and photograph. But what are you doing after I finish my warthog chores?”

“I have an idea. It might help me out of a jam and get you access to the media. You’ve been talking about it. How about I get us a table at the Tuscan Bistro and when you finish your tusk tasks here, you can meet me there. Deal?”

She sure is frisky after weeks of ignoring me. Sounds less shy than she usually is. Was. But so what? She said media attention.

What should be the name of my TV show? Let’s see. Dr. Q, Tiger Tamer. Na, been done. And too dangerous. Maybe Dr. Q Species Specialist. Nope, too hard to say. Or, Dr. Q Cures Your Critter.

Maybe some wine will get my creative juices going. Yeah, that too.

Been awhile. Those animals have all the fun. *** Angie was in a taxi twenty minutes from Ray’s on the River when her phone sounded. It was Summer, nested in a back booth at the Tuscan Bistro near Zoo Atlanta.

“Hi, Angie. I only have a few minutes. We need to get medical help for Nikki’s ankle pretty soon, right? And I think I have a way to do that, but I need your help.”

“Whatever I can do, Summer, but how are you going to pull this off without Brock finding out?”

“If, and it’s not a done deal yet, but if I could get a sort of medical person to come examine Nikki’s ankle at the house and treat her if possible, would you help with that? Keeping it from Brock, of course.”

“Is that possible, Summer? I can think of a dozen ways we could screw that up and get caught by the cops or by Brock. Not sure which would be worse.”

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Summer quaffed some of the house Chianti and pressed on.

“It’s chancy, but worth a try. All you would have to do is get Brock out of the house for an hour or so this evening after dark.

My medical person would sneak in, examine her injury, treat it and leave.”

“No doctor in her or his right mind would do that,” Angie said. “One look at Nikki and the doc would know everything and tell the cops. We’d all go down, Summer. And how long do you think you’d last in a women’s prison? The inmates would throw you a welcome party and then pass you around like an hors d’oeuvre.”

“Yeah, Angie, I get that. Please, hear me out.”

“Hurry up. I’m in a cab picking up my car to get back to the house.”

“This person can be trusted because I can convince him he would reap huge benefits by helping us. No, no, no, don’t interrupt. Are you with me?”

“Go on, Summer.”

“Wait - a thought. This might be better. What if while you distract Brock, we carry Nikki out of the house and drive her to a hospital…”

“Stop talking, Summer, no way. That would blow up everything. Your idea to get Nikki treated is great, but the medical guy has to guarantee secrecy and give something to Nikki so she’s not awake to identify him. Or her. Which is it, by the way?”

“Him. Will you do it, Angie?”

“Yes, I’ll try. Probably insane, but it’s the right thing. If we don’t keep her alive and well…”

“Thank you, thank you, Angie. Give me an hour’s lead and we’ll be there.”

“We’ll be where, Summer?” It was Dr. Q, in street clothes, arriving from the zoo after having showered away any warthog residue.

“Join me, Q,” Summer said, scooting over in the booth. “This chianti is nice for the price.”

“Summer, are you a talent scout now?” Q asked with a slightly crooked smile. “What’s this plan for my soon-to-be-skyrocketing media career?”

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“This is exciting, Q, but we’re in a hurry. I’ll explain as we go.

First, I need you to go back to work and put together a kit for a house call. Your patient is a thirty-something woman who has a severe injury to…”

“Whoa, whoa. A woman? Unless you’re joking and the patient is an exotic animal, you’re talking to the wrong guy. I should leave now.”

“No, listen,” Summer said, putting her hand on his. “This is for your career. Get going and hurry back here. You’ll be thrilled.

It may change your life, for the better. Now go, Q, trust me.” She blew him a kiss as he reached the door of the bistro, shooed him with a hand motion and picked up her cell phone.

“Angie, update please.” Summer said.

“I’ve arranged to meet with Brock in about forty-five minutes at that cool seafood place on Howell Mill. The Optimist, it’s called,” Angie said. “He’s in a good mood. He’s pleased with himself and his million-dollar kidnap demand. We’ll take our time, so you should be clear at the house for over an hour, maybe two. Enough?”

“I hope we get in and out faster than that,” Summer said.

“But, that’s a great cushion. I think my guy has experience with a few major sprains and breaks, at least on gorillas or pandas and such.”

Angie’s attention perked up.

“Does it have to be on wild animals? How about a pony or a puppy?” Angie asked, trying to stifle a hangover-hampered giggle, which morphed into a horselaugh. “I promise you, Summer, you may be a genius if this works, but no matter what, Nikki is going to freak out.”

“Whatever happens, Angie, whatever happens. Oh, since you’re meeting Brock at the restaurant, you’ll be coming back in two cars. Please phone me when you and he are headed this way.

And thanks, Angie. I think Nikki will thank us some day too.”

“Or kill us all,” Angie said. ***

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Dr. Q was back at the Tuscan Bistro in thirty-five minutes with a doctor’s bag and a stethoscope around his neck.

“Hey, you are right on time,” Summer said. As they walked to his car, she took his arm tentatively, then, on purpose, a bit more noticeably.

“You look good, Q. But where’s your official white doctor’s coat?”

“Warthog detritus, all over it,” he said. “Now tell me what we’re doing. You’ve put it off long enough.”

The zoo was only a couple minutes by car from the kidnap house, so Q drove slowly as Angie explained her plan.

“We’ll park a few doors down from the place,” she said. “I have a key and there should be no one home. If someone shows up, I’ll deal with it, but don’t worry. First thing I want you to do is sedate the patient, so she will not see or remember you being here. Agreed?”

“Yes, I guess,” Q answered tentatively. “But the patient, who is it and how’d she get hurt and what’s the extent of the injury?”

“She fell trying to get free of her restraints and…”

“Her restraints? From what? What do you mean?”

“She was tied, tethered with duct tape on her ankles. When she lunged to get free, she snapped or popped or sprained or something in her ankle. There was some blood and swelling and we gave her aspirin and stuff and some bandages but the ankle is a mess and…”

“Summer, slow down, hold on,” he said, raising his voice and putting his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll see to her because I said I would but you must tell me who she is and what this is about. Are we breaking any laws? Is she some VIP or something? Or some mobster’s girlfriend? And why me? Why not contact a physician who actually treats humans?”

Summer turned her head and did an air kiss on Q’s hand.

“Q, you will be a hero if this all works out, but you have to indulge me a bit. Do as I say and we’ll be out of here, no harm done. Please, Q? We’re almost there. Park behind that white fourdoor. My goodness, Q, finding convenient parking around here is usually impossible. You must have good parking karma. I’ll 201

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bet in your next life you’ll come back as Dr. Q, famous brain surgeon.”

“Or maybe a goldfish salesman at a pet store in the mall,” Q said, parking the car and reaching for his medical bag. With summer leading, they walked quickly to a single-family house three doors from Dr. Q’s karma parking space. Summer led Dr. Q around the house to the back door, keyed it open and motioned him in with a keep-quiet gesture.

She was relieved to see only Nikki there, taped to the bed, breathing unevenly through her mouth.

Glad Spring is working an evening schedule at the Humane Society tonight. Maybe I should have included her in this, but she’d have a zillion questions and get in the way. Maybe I’ll have a good talk with her tomorrow. Get her eager to help.

Summer retrieved the cloth bag they’d used in the kidnapping, slipped it over Nikki’s head and secured it under her chin.

Nikki jerked awake. “Now what, you bastards, get off me.”

“It’s me,” Summer said softly. “We’re trying to help you now.

It’ll be fine. Lie back for a minute or two and I’ll remove the bag.

Nikki, listen to me. A medical professional is here to help you, I promise. He’ll give you something for the pain, a quick injection in your arm. Perfectly safe, relax. Stay still for a moment.”

Nikki remained silent. Dr. Q was waiting outside the bedroom door. Summer waved him into the room. Using hand signals, she thrust out her right arm and with her left pretended to push a needle into her arm. He understood and sat down at the edge of the bed. Summer held Nikki’s arm. Q picked up the syringe and leaned in to administer the sedative, but balked before the needle penetrated Nikki’s skin.

“Now, Q,” Summer whispered. He paused, winced, then pushed the plunger and the fluid emptied into Nikki’s arm. Nikki squirmed for what seemed like forever, then her body relaxed.

“Good, Q, you’re a champ,” she said.

Must keep Q’s identity secret until the right time to make him a hero of the whole thing, not part of the abduction. Unless of course he gets to be unmanageable. Puppet on a string comes to mind.

Good Q. Stay, Q. Good boy.

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Dr. Q gingerly removed the drugstore bandage from Nikki’s ankle, pausing to make sure the painkiller injection was working.

“Oh boy, this is awful,” he whispered. “What the hell, Summer, I don’t know the names of the bones, ligaments and all the other parts of the human ankle.”

“Please, Q. There’s time for show and tell later. Right now can you do anything to help her?”

“Put on gloves from my kit. Now, tear open several alcohol wipes and hand them to me one at a time.”

He gently wiped the tissue around bones, ligaments and joints, trying to disinfect much of the wound. He felt each toe, tip to joint. Two at least seemed to be fractured, but, afraid to hinder eventual healing, he left them alone. He found no bones protruding from the skin, but saw cartilage that seemed damaged or displaced and torn ligaments. He glanced up at Summer, who was distraught, a little teary. Dr. Q motioned Summer toward the door and joined her in the hall.

“This is major. She has severe swelling. A few bones may be fractured, can’t really say. She needs X-rays soon as possible. And she needs a people doctor.”

“Any chance she could die, Q?” Summer’s voice shook a little.

“I can’t say for sure, but the bleeding has stopped. We need to bind her ankle and put on fresh bandages at least once a day.

And keep her as immobile as possible. Don’t let her try to walk or in any way put pressure on that foot or leg. And, get her to a hospital.”

“How long before the anesthesia wears off?” Summer asked.

“I don’t know, probably half an hour. If we were working with a wildebeest in that bed, I could tell you, but it’s a human. Not my specialty. Not my license, either. You know I could go to jail for impersonating a medical doctor, human, that is, not zebra or kangaroo - human.” He walked into the kitchen and splashed water on his face.

“Look, Q, you’re right. You could go to prison. Or, if you cooperate, you could be a hero. The briefly unidentified angel of mercy who selflessly came to the rescue of this woman. You risked your career to help her. You’ll be all over the media as a 203

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knight in shining armor. And I’d bet anything that some producer will come along and offer you a reality medical show on TV and worldwide on the Internet. Humans, animals, songbirds ducks, whatever. Your peers will honor you. Kids all over America will want to be veterinarians when they grow up. There will be Q for America fan clubs. You’ll set new records on Facebook and all those global communications on other social media. It will be exciting.”

As Q was processing Summer’s heady portrait of his whitehot future, her cell phone sounded.

“It’s Angie. If you’re helper is still there, get him out right now. Brock was slamming Jägermeister shots and going all teary and shit-faced. I’m bringing him to the house right now. Should be there in twenty minutes. Can you do that?”

“Yes, thanks for the warning. See you here. Hugs.” She clicked the phone off and began to pack up the evidence of Q’s visit.

“You have to go right now, Q,” Summer said. “Keep your cell handy and I’ll phone you tomorrow. And obviously you must not utter a word to anyone about what you’ve seen here tonight.”

“Who is she, Summer? How in hell is she going to cause me to have the kind of good fortune you’re talking about? Is she a celebrity? A movie producer? What? I will not leave until you tell me.”

Summer paused. “We now have sixteen minutes until all this goes to hell, including you. Here it is. Name now, discussion later. The woman you helped in that bed is Nikki Z, the TV anchorwoman.”

“The kidnap…”

“Yes, that Nikki Z. You saved her. You’re a hero, get it? Now move it. Out the door, to your car down the street and away from here. I’ll phone you later. And if you talk about this with anybody, anybody, until we do it together, we’ll all go to prison. Clear?”

Dr. Q never before saw this resolute, bossy side of Summer.

“Yes, my things…”

She thrust his doctor bag at him and pushed him toward the door.

“Thanks for the house call, Q. The zoo critters are lucky to have you.”

204

42 GRANT PARK NEIGHBORHOOD – ATLANTA Officer Ed Walsh began his assigned coverage area on Kendrick Avenue at the south end of the Zoo Atlanta grounds.

Single-family homes dominated the area, and the crime rate was relatively low.

Walsh was new to that part of town. In his three years on the force, he had never patrolled the neighborhood. His first impression was how close the area’s pet cats and dogs were to the wild animals beyond the barriers. Walsh wondered whether the tigers inside were salivating over the year-old cocker spaniel walking its owner on the nearby sidewalk.

The cop’s musings were interrupted by the “Hello, Officer” greeting from an attractive young woman with long black hair and memorable bright eyes. She was pushing a stroller, a baby barely visible amidst its blankets and knit cap.

“Good evening ma’am. Nice baby.” No, that didn’t come out right.

“Do you live around here?”

She lived with her husband and the kid, as she referred to the child, farther up Kendrick Avenue. No, she didn’t see any suspicious or shady-looking people around there lately. Yes, she was alert and watchful.

“For example,” she said. “I spotted you several minutes before you saw me. What’s this about? Some sort of a manhunt, or person hunt, I should say?”

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“Only in a general way, Mrs…” “Alber, Clara Alber. And before you ask, I’m no relation to the big Albers Grits Company. Wish I were.”

“I understand, Mrs. Alber. How about cars? Seen any parked cars new to this street? Or any kind of odd behavior, fast driving, doors slamming, yelling, bad language or threats?”

“No, no, no and no, but if you have a card, I’ll call you if any suspicious stuff takes place.”

“Any time, Mrs. Alber. Call me any time.”

A block away, he could see another officer chatting with a man under a streetlight at the corner. The closer Walsh got to the other cop and the civilian, the more Walsh realized the man was nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot, talking fast.

“Ed, I mean Officer Walsh, this is Dr. Quintavious Vine. He’s a veterinarian at the zoo.”

“Hello, Doc, I’m Ed Walsh. What’s going on?”

Dr. Q launched into a two-minute monologue about how he was only in the neighborhood to see a friend, girlfriend.

“And, yes, that’s my medical bag but I didn’t need it. I always carry it out of habit. Look in it? You can look, but try to avoid getting blood on your hands. I mean warthog blood. Yeah, it’s nasty warthog stuff from my work at the zoo.”

Walsh opened the bag part way, palmed a small wad of stained gauze and slipped it into his side pants pocket.

“The zoo is right over there you know and my specialty is exotic animals which warthogs are one of, they, is, a species of exotics but not as well-known as tigers and lions and giraffes and…”

“Whoa, Doctor Quin…”

“Tavius – Quintavious. I am a doctor but not a people doctor, a doctor veterinarian, doctor with animals.”

He took a deep breath, then another.

“No humans. Animals. Even warthogs have a right to good healthcare. Yes. Exotic animals are important to life on this planet. Did you know warthogs have four tusks? Bet not, but they do and we all…”

“Where-do-you-live, Doctor?”

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“Inman Park. Not too far from here, not too far from here.

Why? Are there more police patrolling over there too? I’m on my way there. Tired. Long day, with the wild animals and all…”

“No, I don’t think we’ll get to your neighborhood tonight, not yet,” Walsh said.

“I’ll be on my way,” Dr. Q said, wishing he could sprint to his car.

“I’ll walk with you,” Walsh said. He shook hands with the jittery vet and made a mental note of his license plate. Dr. Q started his engine and inched into the street.

If he goes any slower he’ll get a ticket for being double-parked.

Might also die of fright.

Officer Walsh phoned Detective Hagan as Dr. Q’s car disappeared from sight. Dusk was giving way to dark. Most of the houses had a light or two on, some with TV screens visible through curtains or open blinds.

“Thanks, Walsh, nice work. Run the license plates on that animal doctor and get the gauze you pilfered from the doc’s bag to the lab. Give ‘em a heads-up. Could be animal, could be human. I’ll call over there to get an ETA for the lab results.”

“Sir,” Officer Walsh said, “for what it’s worth, if there is human blood, it could be the vet’s. He was so nervous he could have cut off his own hand.”

By late evening, the zoo neighborhood sweep was finished but with not much to show for it. A few drunks were rousted, a teenager selling marijuana was busted and sent downtown for processing. Several residents said it was about time the cops showed up because their neighbors always were too loud. Three residents complained the animals at the zoo were noisier at night than the real estate agents let on.

207

43 ATLANTA & NORTH GEORGIA MOUNTAINS The office phone rang as Bren Forrest was putting a last sheaf of papers into her out box. She stood up from her the black oak desk before she responded, giving the answering service a chance to deal with it. Whatever evil force was conniving to ruin her plans for the next few hours could wait, couldn’t it? Wasn’t twelve hours of non-stop crisis management enough for one day?

No. Her private cell phone began buzzing, assuring Bren the person sending the text was one of five people who knew that number. That meant the caller would persevere and persist. Bren looked at the cell text message.

“Bren: Please approve ASAP my quick trip to N.GA w/Daryl.

Cud be major re Nikki Z, kidnappers + +. Away 2 nites max.

Thnx! Cassie.”

“Phone me, cell. Now.” Bren texted. “Also, nobody likes to be told ASAP.” Fifteen minutes later, the deal was done. Bren, president and owner of Global News Service, approved Cassie’s request for a twenty-four to forty-eight hour trip to the North Georgia mountains. *** As Bren Forrest was heading for bed, Rudy Decker was downing a double bacon cheeseburger with onions. It wasn’t as warm as he hoped, but he needed to get into and out of town 208

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fast. After hitting the Bass ‘n Beef Drive Thru and the liquor store next door, he found a Walgreens near the Waffle House. A tube of Colgate and a pair of sunglasses later, he headed back to his dismal digs behind Scary Gary’s business office. He postponed the Bass ‘n Beef experience until he opened the bourbon and took a long pull from the bottle. One-handed, he peeled the juicy waxed paper from around the Bass-based, fried fish sticks and chomped a couple. Fortified with a half-glass of the bourbon, he sat at the dinette set and pried open the beef part of his meal. It looked okay, not bloody anyway, fully cooked.

At least it’s not bear meat. I mean, if it was bear, they’d have to say that on the label, the menu, right?

More bourbon annulled whatever messages his taste buds might be sending to his brain. His energy leveled off along with his anxiety. He finished about half his meat treat and a little more than half the bourbon.

Maybe a nightcap later. First, a little TV. Some escapist twaddle would be nice.

209

44 NORTH GEORGIA Before seven the next day, Cassie, RoAnn and Daryl were in a rented van driving north from Atlanta. Max had set up a late morning meeting with the head ranger in the state wildlife commission’s northern region. Max also arranged hotel rooms in the Motel Twelve, not far from the local Waffle House in that small, mountain town. As they drove, Max sent the two women emails full of research information on bear poaching in the region. Max included eye-opening details of the growth of the illegal hunting, mostly by people poaching animal parts that were in great demand in many regions of the world.

“Let me drive, Cassie,” said RoAnn, “while you read this info from Max. We know some of it, but it’s powerful stuff. Also, you said you need a clean restroom soon as you see a place. We’ll call it multi-tasking.”

“Ro, it says here the gall bladder of one mature black bear can bring thirty thousand dollars, maybe more, in parts of Asia.”

RoAnn said, “I know they process the organs, sometimes drying and powdering them. They cut it over and over, not unlike serious drugs.”

“But, is this mainly an aphrodisiac?” Daryl asked.

“No, not at all,” RoAnn said. “The bile from the gall bladder is used for health and healing treatments. It’s been part of traditional medicine for centuries.”

“We need to find the connection between the bear poaching enterprises and Nikki’s kidnapping,” Cassie said. “I know it’s true, 210

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but who abducted her and why? Maybe they want to stop Nikki from exposing them in the news special you’re working on. As to who are the kidnappers, I have no idea.”

“Something’s not right,” RoAnn said, with agitation. She squealed the van’s tires leaving the highway rest area and gunned its engine merging onto the interstate. Daryl’s chances at a nap in the back seat waned as RoAnn’s aggressive driving raised the tension level and the decibel count in the car. Daryl earlier suggested they go in one of the GNS news vans, but Cassie and RoAnn nixed the idea.

“Unless you have a video van painted in full camouflage, the answer is no,” Cassie said.

“She means hell no and I do, too,” RoAnn said. “Besides, Daryl, you have all that hotshot new video gear now. Probably fits in a fanny pack. You don’t need the behemoth video trucks for a story like this, right?”

Daryl resisted putting RoAnn down with a Mr. Rogers-style explanation of how TV technology works.

Maybe I’ll get to do that, but not on this trip. This assignment beats the hell out of covering the kidnap mania in Atlanta. One more candlelight vigil with air headed adolescent girls gushing about Nikki and I might have to quit GNS and get a job doing prison videos for the Lockup TV show. This trip is a relief. At least up in the mountains, I doubt I’ll be spat on by pro-fur, pro-Nikki freaks, waving those stupid slogans, like, “We Support Nikki Z Ready, Willing and Sable.” Lame-o lunatics. Won’t be bothered up here either by those anti-fur wing nuts. What was their mantra?

“NoMoreFurOrNoMoreNikki.com.” Brilliant.

RoAnn spotted a Waffle House and the motel Max booked for them.

“Not a minute too soon, right Cassie?”

“Yes, hurry, please. Gotta go.”

“Your bladder must be the size of a lentil,” RoAnn said. “Let’s hit the motel, then get some breakfast.”

But the restroom rush hit a snag. The desk clerk at the Motel Twelve said none of the guest rooms were ready.

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“We were invaded by about six barbershop quartets here last night singing their butts off and gulping PBR until at least three o’clock. You ever hear a song called, Old Mill Stream? Musta sung it five times. Having a ball, they were. Some of ’em, the barber singing guys, picked up some groupies. Don’t rightly know who was knockin’ boots with who but nobody has stirred yet this morning.”

“Sorry we missed it,” RoAnn said, wincing. “There’s a public bathroom on this floor, must be, so where is it please?”

“Down the hall, right past that rack full of sightseeing brochures. The commode will be vacant but the door sticks sometimes. A good kick should do it.”

Cassie asked Daryl to “lace up,” that is, get the video camera and related gear ready to shoot.

“Whatever you say, but I was kinda hoping we could eat, quick and easy, at the Waffle House,” Daryl said. “Good crowd there, parking lot’s almost full.”

“Perfect,” Cassie said, also hoping RoAnn would appear soon.

When she did, Cassie stepped around her and headed down the hall.

“Daryl, I’m not sure how we’ll be received with these folks,” RoAnn said. “Some may think we’re from Mars.”

“Or worse, Atlanta,” Daryl grinned. “How about I use the iPhone to record a couple of quick Q and A’s as customers come out of the Waffle House, Then, if they’re friendly, we can go in, sit down and order breakfast and get a feel for the situation.”

“Good, I’ll find the manager and schmooze him or her a little,” RoAnn said. Daryl nodded, trying not to laugh.

Oh boy, that oughta be fun. RoAnn’s idea of a schmooze is most people’s idea of a sledgehammer.

“Cassie, let’s hang back a bit and let Daryl chat with the people here, casual-like,” RoAnn said. “He’s good at that, right?”

“A pro,” Cassie said. “But we need to talk with some people eating in the booths, maybe a waitress or a cook. Daryl warms ’em up and then I’ll join him and his new best friends.”

As Daryl walked toward the front door of the restaurant, two men came out, wearing denim coveralls, well-worn spattered work boots and Home Depot painter’s hats.

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“Excuse me, fellas, I’m talking to folks about stuff in the news.

Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

The younger of the two, the son maybe, looked at the middleaged man with him, who nodded. “’Bout what, Mr.?” the young man asked.

“Daryl, call me Daryl. I want to…”

“Daryl? Your name is Daryl? Me too. I’m Daryl too. He looked around as though he was expecting someone or something else to appear.

“Is this a joke, Mr. Daryl?” the young man asked. “You have that iPhone on us. Is this a TV reality show? Something like Cheaters, maybe? If it is, you’re talking to the wrong dudes, man.”

The older man nodded again, saying nothing.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Daryl said. “It’s for the TV news in Atlanta, about a TV newswoman who was kidnapped.”

“No, really? The Nikki lady? The one with the fur coat everybody hates? About her? Man, she’s on TV all the time. Not her, but the whole hostage thing. Wow, what’s up? Is she dead?

Or still captured, whatever? Wait. Is there, do you, I mean, is she a prisoner here in the mountains?”

Watching from across the parking lot, Cassie and RoAnn saw the young man talking and waving his arms. They moved closer to hear what Daryl was recording from the local Daryl in the painter’s cap.

“Tell me, Daryl,” cameraman Daryl said, “you obviously know that Nikki’s kidnappers claim they’re animal rights activists. They want to burn Nikki’s sable coat. How do you feel about that?”

The painter’s hat Daryl said, “I mean, why do that? Why ruin a good warm coat? You don’t often see many sables running around in these parts. Wish we did. Probably worth more than fox or rabbits.”

Painter’s hat Daryl was warming up to his role as TV commentator for a day.

“I’ll bet them sables are worth more than our black bears, pound for pound, body parts and all. Course it’d probably take fifty sables to get as much fur, meat, claws, gall bladders and other stuff to match the take from a good old momma bear. Why…” 213

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Cassie noticed Daryl the elder putting a hand on the younger one’s shoulder and squeezing.

“Hey, Daryl,” Cassie said abruptly, as she walked closer to TV Daryl and the other guys. “You’ve been great, young man.

Thanks for talking with us. Do you have a business card or can I get your phone number? That way we can let you know when you’ll be on TV. It could be later today or tonight.”

Cassie was surprised to hear the young Daryl mention bear parts, but she sensed the elder Daryl was agitated and might do something ugly.

“Thank you, gentlemen. We’ll be in touch.”

If we can get the kid to talk to us without the older man’s iron grip, maybe we can tear the bear poaching story wide open.

She looked at the business card in her hand: Daryl & Sons, Three Generations of Quality Painting Service.

A phone number and an email address followed.

Cassie showed the card to RoAnn. “Three generations?” she asked with a chuckle. “All these Daryls, one family.”

“Listen up, y’all,” shouted the talkative Daryl as he and his dad climbed into their truck. “When you see Miss Nikki, tell her we love her up here.” Cassie knew she already had enough video, including the Daryl interview, for a short, colorful report for Global News Service. Cassie would record an on-camera standup, then do more interviews inside the Waffle House for use in a follow-up report.

“Channel 4 can use its own anchor live in studio atop my open and close. Does that work for you RoAnn?” “Yes, Cassie, Daryl, are you okay with that?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Let’s say I’m more comfortable with Cassie and me going into the restaurant together.”

Cassie and Daryl both stared at RoAnn for a few seconds.

“What is it, RoAnn? Is there a problem?”

“Cassie, I guess I don’t know if we’ll be welcome. It feels…”

“Really, RoAnn. Are you spooked by all these pickup trucks and mountain people or something? Is it all the white faces 214

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in the place? RoAnn, you do know some black people live up here too, don’t you? These people have seen African-Americans before. And if any of them haven’t, it’ll be something to tell their grandchildren about.”

“Yes, of course you’re right, Cassie. I’m sorry. But I’m coming with you. Think of me as your big, strong, mean producer.”

That eased the tension, as did the smattering of applause and waving of hands when they entered the restaurant.

“You’re the TV people from Atlanta, right?” It was Roz the server, standing at the front counter. “Welcome. Come on in. Word spreads fast around here. You here looking for that kidnapped TV lady, Nikki something?”

“Hello, I’m RoAnn. This is Cassandra Page and our cameraman is Daryl Evans. He and Cassie work for Global News Service and I’m a producer for Channel 4 in Atlanta.”

“No, Roz, we’re not hunting for Nikki Z here, although we’d love to find her,” said Cassie. “We’re here to talk to folks about the kidnapping and the controversy over animal rights. Could we ask you about that?”

“Yeah, Roz, go for it,” a middle-aged woman in a nearby booth said between bites of scrambled eggs and bacon strips.

“Tell ’em what we think of dirty rotten kidnappers, Roz,” yelled a man across the room, waving an Atlanta Braves baseball cap.” Other voices overlapped, punching the air with cheers for Roz and dire threats toward Nikki’s captors.

“Roz, the kidnappers talk about animal rights and say Nikki represents animal haters. What do you think about that?” Cassie asked.

Boos filled the room. Several diners at the counter were doing scary high fives with their coffee cups. Roz laughed when one mug shattered, spilling coffee on the customer, who laughed it off.

“Animal haters? That’s crazy talk,” Roz said. “Could you interview some other folks now?” Roz asked. Daryl eased into the spirit of the moment, relieved that the crowd was friendly and not camera-shy.

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“Everyone, let’s hear it for Roz,” Daryl said. The noise was deafening, with clanking of knives and forks, coffee mugs, cheers for Roz and, the start of a chant – “Let Nikki go! Let Nikki go!”

“And let’s hear it for Cassandra Page too,” Daryl shouted.

Another robust cheer went up.

Cassie motioned to Daryl to put the camera on her with the chanting crowd in the background. He started with a close-up of her, slowly widening the shot to reveal what probably was the most exciting pep rally in Waffle House history. She ad libbed an on-camera closer for the report Daryl soon would edit and send to GNS in Atlanta.

“To Nikki Z,” Cassie said to the camera, “If you’re watching this outpouring of affection for you here in North Georgia, you know they love you and hope you are back on TV soon. For your kidnappers, the message from these people to the criminals who hold you hostage is simple: Let you go. Release you unharmed.

And, Nikki Z, soon as you’re able, come on up to the mountains and join the party in your honor. This is Cassandra Page, on the case in North Georgia for Global News Service.”

RoAnn caught up with Daryl as he rushed to the SUV to edit the video and send it to GNS and Channel 4.

“Daryl, you surprise me and in a good way mostly. Tell me, what was that cheerleading stunt you pulled in the restaurant?

What was it again, ‘Let Nikki go?’ And ‘Let’s hear it for Cassandra Page, too.’ What’s next in your career, the sidekick on Dancing With the Stars? Or becoming a celebrity hash slinger at Waffle House?”

216

45 NORTH GEORGIA At first glance, Ranger Verne Mabry looked like Smokey Bear’s younger brother - slightly height-challenged, pudgy, with eyeglasses more ‘goggleish’ than Gucci. Mabry didn’t share Smokey’s full beard or hairy body, but his smile was a ringer for the famous fictitious bear.

“Are we being punked here?” RoAnn whispered, as she and Cassie shook hands with the ranger and sat in the rough-hewn wooden chairs across from the ranger’s matching desk.

“Shhh,” Cassie said, then turned to Mabry, who pushed back his ranger hat, revealing a line across the forehead where the hat usually rested.

“Ladies, I’m here to help you get what you need for your TV shows. Do I get it right that you want some, what did they call it, human interest films for the news?”

“Sort of,” Cassie said. “Oh, this is Daryl Evans, our cameraman.”

“Hi, Ranger,” Daryl said with a wave, unfolding the metal tripod and attaching the camera atop it.

“Yes, human interest,” Cassie said. “As you are aware, Ranger Mabry, a prominent TV anchorwoman, Nikki Zachos, has been kidnapped. It’s making national news…”

“Yes ma’am, it’s all over TV. And we do have satellite up here in the woods,” Mabry said. “Do you think the kidnappers have her hostage in these mountains? That’s way above my pay grade and…”

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“No, no, nothing like that. We want to do a story about how people outside the big urban areas feel about the kidnapping.

Also, the kidnappers are anti-fur activists. They hate Nikki because she wears a costly coat made of sables. She flaunts it.

They say that’s why they abducted her. We want to know how people here feel about it in general. We know hunting is popular and folks here may have a perspective we don’t hear in the cities.”

“I hope you’ll be with us while we’re doing our video work because we’d love to interview you, Ranger Mabry,” RoAnn added. “You look cute, I mean cool, in that uniform. Would that be appropriate?”

“My boss said to cooperate fully with you and I will unless some sort of emergency comes up. Doesn’t happen often but…”

“Understand completely, sir,” RoAnn said, glancing at Cassie.

“Ladies, would you like me to show you around a few of the mountain trails and highlights first?” the ranger asked. “Or would you rather do the little interview with me and then have lunch, maybe, and then go…”

“Yes, we’d love the grand tour,” RoAnn spoke up. “We’d love to have you show us around and Daryl can make some video while we’re at it. I mean, this is y’all’s back yard, a pretty darned exciting place, I’m guessin.”

Cassie gave RoAnn a look which said, “You sound about as much like a Georgia forest ranger as Edith Piaf.”

RoAnn could not recall the last time she rode in a pickup truck, if ever. She remembered the couple of times high school boys tried to convince her to “take a ride,” as they put it, winking and giggling at the load capacity of this or that pick ’em up truck.

Those conversations never went well for the horny boys. RoAnn was bigger and tougher that most of them and could out run and out-skateboard the rest. Ranger Mabry’s truck was a Bentley compared to the rusty buckets those kids drove back in her hometown of Defiance, Ohio. No cigarette burns on the seats or the dash, no stains from dipping and spitting Grizzly or Reek.

“You keep a clean truck, Ranger,” Ro Ann said. “Must be a challenge, what with carrying around hunters and the animals they shoot out here.”

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“We don’t run shuttles for those guys, ma’am. They have their own vehicles. Not sure I understand your question.”

“I meant, say, what if a hunter bagged a bear…”

“I think what RoAnn means,” Cassie said, not trusting RoAnn’s ability to be subtle, “is that you and your colleagues have a lot of land and wildlife to protect and you probably do it well. Right, RoAnn?” “Surely, Cassie,” RoAnn said, “I surely do.”

“I think my colleagues are understandably excited to be here,” Daryl said quickly.

Good thing it’s not open season on sarcasm up here.

“Ranger, let me get a little video of you on camera as we go slowly along this trail,” Daryl said. “It’s not as bumpy as the path behind us.”

“Not a problem, young man. What would you like me to do or say?”

Daryl glanced at Cassie and she picked up the conversation.

“Can we call you Ranger Verne, Ranger Mabry?” Cassie asked. “It sounds a little friendlier and easygoing and I know you are cool under pressure.”

“Sure, young lady, call me anything you wish.”

“Did you ever shoot a poacher, Ranger Verne?” It was RoAnn at her most aggressive. “And how do you feel about people who say some eco-extremists care more about animals than people?”

“Now, Miss RoAnn, I think you have the wrong idea. We’re not...”

“No, Ranger, “Cassie said, “Ro didn’t mean…”

“I think we need to change the subject, ladies,” the ranger said.

Daryl spoke up. “How about telling us whether bear poaching is a problem up here or is it media hype?”

“It can be a problem, but we can deal with it. So, how about we take a break?” the ranger asked. Daryl didn’t like that.

Don’t stop now, Smokey. Give these women something to get upset about. It works. We get great TV stuff that way.

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“There’s a fun place up this trail to the right,” the ranger said.

“We can get a snack, something to drink and regroup a little.”

Cassie and RoAnn nodded and the ranger turned the truck onto the larger trail.

“This place has a funny name, but it really is for fun, the ranger said. “And you may get some good quotes from the owner.

His name is Gary. He knows these woods and the critters that live here, animals and humans. He’s a little of both.”

“Look at that sign, Cassie, RoAnn,” Daryl said, clicking his video camera to On and pointing it out the right front window of the ranger’s pickup truck. “It’s perfect for this trip so far. See it?

Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures. Some name, eh, Cass? Stop for a minute please, Ranger, while I record this sign and the small building there, the office, is it?”

“Sort of an office,” Ranger Mabry said. “More of an office, gift shop, convenience store and rest stop for tourists who clamor through these woods. And for the hunters who swarm all over this area in deer season, bear season and so forth later in the year.”

“Who is Gary and why is he ‘scary’?” asked RoAnn. “Or are the scary parts the so-called mountain adventures?”

Ranger Mabry laughed again. “I don’t rightly know,” he said. “But I have my own theory about why this little oasis in the wilderness, sarcasm intended, has that particular name. Two reasons.”

“What? Tell. What?” Cassie, RoAnn and Daryl asked almost in unison.

“I think Gary pretends this is a little amusement park, these woods, with his own wild things and touristy things that can be scary. Also, I’d bet the secret reason he took the name ‘Gary’s Scary’ etcetera is because scary rhymes with Gary.”

“Catchy” Daryl said.

“Not as likely as my other theory either,” the ranger said.

Again, the TV trio chimed in. “What?”

“Some tourists say the scariest thing about Gary’s little patch is the presence of those disgusting wieners going around and around on that nasty hot dog roller grill. You can smell ’em from here to the highway.”

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“Thanks for the tour, Ranger Mabry,” Cassie said. “We can leave this place, I think, soon as we use the facilities. There are rest rooms in the store, right?” *** Gary saw the ranger pull up near his sign and watched as the three civilians got out of the truck. He charged out the door when he saw Daryl walking in the direction of the outbuildings behind the office.

“Hi Verne, welcome back to Scary Gary’s, and who are these good-looking people with you?” Gary displayed his poolroom grin, the kind that smiles big at the ladies, checks the men for a sign of weapons and glances at the visitors’ shoes and boots.

Gary told Earl many times the quality of the shoes on tourists or hunters is a better measure of their net worth than Dun and Bradstreet. He expected Earl to ask who those guys were, but he never did. Later Gary figured out Earl didn’t ask because he assumed Gary was referring to the country music duo, Brooks and Dunn.

“These are TV news folks from Atlanta, Gary,” the ranger said. “That’s Daryl, the camera guy, and these lovely ladies are RoAnn Gantry and Cassandra Page.”

“Welcome again, all y’all,” Gary said. “Are ya working on a big story for your TV news or on vacation or what? We don’t have much news around here, but maybe we could scare up somethin’.

Scary, get it? I’m Gary,” he said, a little uneasily.

“Gary, did you see on TV that one of the news anchors in Atlanta was kidnapped, snatched right off the street?” RoAnn asked. “Some two-bit eco-nuts say they did it to protest her wearing fur coats and all that. Wha…” “Pardon me ma’am,” Gary said, “but I don’t think those tree huggers would get much support up here in the mountains. Y’all want to talk to some of the locals for the news? Wait. Where are my manners? Come on in the store. I’ll rustle up some country style hot dogs hot off the grill and you can use the facilities in there too, of course.”

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“That’d be great,” RoAnn said. “Ranger Verne told us all about your famous hot dogs.” *** The chickens were making noise in the yard behind Gary’s main building, past the shed where he kept the cooler for bear parts. From the cabin, Rudy could not hear the chatter out front.

A few words, a woman’s voice included? And Gary, showing off his clever side for the visitors. Rudy turned the TV to Global News Service. He wasn’t paying much attention, thinking about his situation and possible ways out. He was jolted to see a reporter standing in front of the Naples, Florida police building. “…case is focused now on the prime suspect. Naples police identify him as Rudy Decker, a sometime man-about-town, said to be an investor known for supporting good causes and attending glitzy charitable events. Police are asking the public’s help in finding the man in this photo, taken at a recent Naples Zoo benefit.”

Rudy jerked backwards as the TV screen filled with a tuxedoclad close-up of himself, before he let his beard grow, sported sunglasses and wore a sweatshirt hoodie.

“Police want Decker in the brutal, bloody murder of Hunter Freeman, a former TV reporter and anchor here in Naples. She was found in her Naples condo, stabbed multiple times. One officer said it was a slaughter. ‘Obviously a crime of passion,’ he said.”

“Shit,” Rudy said out loud as he muted the TV. “Shit, shit, shit.”

What do they have on me? Witnesses? Impossible. Alibi? Should be tight. Seen and heard at the Naples Zoo bash, then gone a bit and back in a flash. Oh, wait.

Agatha, the busybody who made that smart remark about leaving her party. Agatha. What proof does she have? Her word against mine, right? I gotta get outa here, but to where? Can’t stay in these woods. Everybody knows everybody, I’m guessing. Naples?

Hell no. Atlanta? I don’t know, don’t know. Need more cash. Yeah.

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I need a game. High stakes. That’s it. Where to get the game? Up here? No way. Has to be Atlanta. I’ll get more dough and disappear.

How about the Asia district. No, slippery bunch, probably slit my throat. Or maybe yank out my gall bladder. Wonder what that would bring on the “human parts” market?

Rudy poured some leftover bourbon in a glass and took a long pull, then coughed once, exhaled and grinned.

Angie. Yeah, she’ll help me, poor thing. She loves my ass. But how? Where’s she gonna get a wad of cash? Not in her purse, I took it, remember? He laughed to himself. Guess I better sweet-talk her, put some lovin’ on her.

Rudy reached for his phone on the table and thumbed in Angie’s number.

Seeing Rudy’s number pop up, she tried not to answer the call. Then, she smiled, thinking about all the bad things she wanted to do to him. By the fourth ring, the cool possibilities of revenge swirled into an image of sugar plums dancing, sleigh bells ringing and her smiling as she began planning to inflict a wonderland of woe on him.

“Hello, Angie here,” she said in a voice as breathy as she could manage.

“Hi, Angie baby, Rudy here. Are you all right? I need you Angie. You have to help me out…”

“Whoa, slow down, Rudy,” Angie said with a studied calm.

“You’ve been a naughty boy lately, don’t you think? Why should I help you? And what sort of help do you need? Oh wait, I know.

I watch the news on TV and I do have a hint of your current difficulties. But I’d like to hear it from you, sweetie, if I can still call you that.”

“You know me, Angie,” Rudy said. “You know I didn’t do any of those things the police claim. But yes, I did leave Atlanta in a hurry and didn’t have time to tell you what was going on.”

“All right then, Rudy. Come over to the house near the zoo, you know the one I mean, and we can make a plan, figure all this out. You’d be safe there, Rudy.”

“No way, Angie. I need you to come get me in your car and take me to your apartment until we make a plan. Please Angie.

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From seeing the TV, cops are looking for me all over the south.

I need to dump my rental car and go with you. Please, can you come right now?”

“I guess, for you, Rudy. Where are you?”

She did not understand him when he whispered, “In the north Georgia mountains.”

“Where?” she asked loudly. “The north what? Mountains?

What mountains? How in the…”

“Look, it’s an easy two-hour drive, babe,” Rudy said. “I’ll text you directions. No one will recognize your car up here. I’ll look for you at the Cracker Barrel parking lot. It’s marked with a red dot on the map display. We’ll be home safe before you know it and then I can maybe make a proper apology, if you know what I mean. Please, Angie?”

She paused for a moment, not knowing whether to scream obscenities at him over the phone or wait until they returned to Atlanta, had sex and then burst his eardrum with the police whistle she kept in her nightstand at home.

This could be perfect. If I wait ‘til we get home he’ll be vulnerable and dependent on my help. A first, in his mind. A good thing. Our first real sex, too. And last. Another good thing. I doubt they allow conjugal visits where he’s going.

224

46 NAPLES & ATLANTA Naples Detective Sam Graham was slammed with work on the Hunter Freeman murder case, but he deftly managed a bevy of fist bumps and high fives when word came from the lab about the red speck on Rudy Decker’s neck. It was blood bearing the DNA of the murder victim, found the night she was killed. It put Rudy at Hunter’s apartment that night and strongly suggested Rudy was close enough to the bloody slaughter to have some of it on his skin, half hidden under his ear lobe.

Detective Graham contacted Agatha Wearmsley right after he told his superiors at Naples PD and at the State Attorney’s office.

“I’d hug you if I could reach you, Ms. Wearmsley,” Sam said.

“My best offer today, Detective,” she replied. “To what do I owe this huggable moment?”

“Can I trust you to keep a secret for the time being?”

“If you insist, absolutely insist, I suppose,” she said in mock shock. He explained the DNA evidence and its relevance to the case against Rudy Decker.

“Your spotting that blood on Decker’s neck and your quick thinking in transferring it to your handkerchief resulted in our best evidence yet. We are grateful.”

“You are most welcome, Detective Graham, but please, call me Agatha. I do have questions about all this. Might you be free to come to my home for lunch one day soon? My husband would 225

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have enjoyed meeting you. Alas, he is deceased. You are stuck with me.”

They agreed on the details for their lunch meeting. “Also, Agatha, please call me Sam. And who knows, maybe by the time we meet again we’ll have caught the killer.” *** “Oh no, I forgot Jimmy Hagan in Atlanta,” Sam said out loud to nobody in the small office at Naples Police headquarters. He was distracted by Agatha’s “alas” comment, about her husband being…not alive.

Jimmy’s assistant answered on the second ring.

“This is Detective Sam Graham in Naples, Florida and I’m speaking to…”

“Margaret here. Hello, Detective Graham. How are things in peaceful, law-abiding Naples Florida this fine day?”

“Hi, Margaret, sorry I didn’t recognize your voice. Things are getting interesting here in the Hunter Freeman homicide case. Is Jimmy around?”

“He’s over at Channel 4. The kidnappers called twice more this morning and Jimmy’s expecting to hear from them again.

Between us, they sound pretty desperate.”

“I’ll try Jimmy’s cell,” Sam said. “I know he’ll want to hear the DNA results from that handkerchief. I didn’t tell you this, but it’s a match. It’s Ms. Freeman’s blood, from a speck on Rudy Decker’s neck, so it puts him at the crime scene almost certainly.”

“Sure thing, Detective, and don’t worry. Your information is safe with me.”

“I know that, Margaret. And call me Sam, by the way. From what I hear, you are the heart and soul of Atlanta’s ‘social’ detective bureau anyway.”

Margaret laughed and replied, “It is true that I know where the bodies are buried.” Sam laughed again.

“No, I mean, really, Sam. I know where the bodies are buried.” *** 226

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

“If there is a hell,” DK Jack said to Jimmy Hagan, “I’m definitely on the road to it.”

The two men were in DK’s office at Channel 4 waiting for Nikki Z’s abductors to call again.

“Why is that?” the detective asked. “Is going to hell automatic for news directors at TV stations these days? I knew you TV guys ranked pretty low in those likeability polls, but I thought you were still more popular than congressmen and lawyers.”

“Let me ask you a question,” DK said, holding up a sheaf of papers. “These are printouts of the overnight ratings for our newscasts yesterday. Keep in mind our news shows are pretty much wall-to-wall Nikki Z’s kidnapping. The other stations are on it too. Who do you think is number one in viewers in this ratings report?”

“I have no idea,” Jimmy said with notable lack of interest. “I do remember Cassie telling me, when she worked at Channel 3, they were number one all the time.”

“They were, for years,” DK said. “Not any more. Drum roll, please. The winner is… more drum roll here…the winner is little old Channel 4. That’s us, Jimmy, the perennial loser in Atlanta television, now on top for the first time in the history of this station. And why? Nikki Z. We hired her because of her flamboyant style. She tends to polarize viewers, love her or hate her, like that. Before Nikki signed with us, our ratings were pitiful. It would have been cheaper to cancel our newscasts and go door to door around town, reading the news to anybody who answered their doorbells. Nikki is a major improvement. She attracts many more viewers, but it’s been a slog. I hate to say it but…”

“I’ll say it,” Jimmy interrupted. “Nikki Z is more valuable to Channel 4 now, tied up by kidnappers in some nut job’s basement crawl space, than she is anchoring the six o’clock news. Did I get that right, DK?” The news director’s imagination ricocheted from a goldplated bonus for rocketing Channel 4 from worst to first to the end of the line at a soup kitchen for disgraced news directors.

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“Yeah, something like that,” DK said uncomfortably.

“Having those thoughts, thinking of Nikki’s abduction as sort of a plus, heck, that’s no biggie, DK. That won’t get you to Hell. To a Justin Bieber concert maybe, but that’s redundant.”

DK laughed. The phone rang. The man from PAP was back.

“Gentlemen, PAP is calling again to ask whether you have decided to meet our demands and help us end this whole thing,” Brock said in a tired tone of voice. He mostly sounded annoyed.

“Mr. Pap,” DK said, “you’re forgetting your manners. This is the point where you produce Miss Nikki for us, at least her voice, remember? And she gets to talk with us and assure us she’s not being harmed. Oh, and we would prefer to use FaceTime or Skype. Either way, but let’s get to it.”

“We won’t produce her unless you agree to our ransom demands,” Brock said.

“We quit,” DK replied. “No more BS. I’m thinking you may have hurt Nikki. Maybe hurt her bad. If she were unharmed you’d let us see her. Tell us now. The truth.”

Brock hung up and threw the burner phone as hard as he could into a wastebasket.

“Summer, get rid of that phone now,” he shouted as he walked into the room where Nikki was duct taped to the bed.

“Those freaks at the TV station don’t care much about you, Nikki. They really don’t.” The fury on Brock’s face morphed into a Jack Nicholson leer and he leaned closer to her face.

“First, they refused to pay a modest million in ransom to get you back. Now they’re pretending to be upset that you might be injured or sick. Here’s what we’re going to do, you obnoxious pain in the ass. I’m going to call them back. You’re going to get on the line and tell them you’re fine, that you stubbed your toe on a loose rug, something like that. You with me so far?”

Nikki nodded, her eyes closed, partly against the pain, mostly under the sedation the veterinarian gave her.

“Are you listening, you witch from hell?”

She nodded again.

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“I take that as a yes. One hour from now, I’ll make that call and, if you want to stay alive, you’ll be up for it. Show some spunk, some energy, some emotion. Isn’t that what your TV masters pay you for, to stir people up every day at five, six and eleven o’clock?”

Nikki didn’t respond.

“Damn right it is. Get ready for your big performance on the phone. Could be the most important show in your life, you pathetic piece of trash.”

229

47 NORTH GEORGIA MOUNTAINS As Daryl finished his hot dog, he held it away from his face between bites, as though wondering about the identity of the alleged meat in the buns.

Maybe it’s deer jerky. Gamey enough. I’ve heard of aged meat but this is ridiculous.

He looked across the tiny store area and into the office.

Gary was showing Cassie and RoAnn the heads of animals that occupied most of the wall space. When Daryl joined them, RoAnn was studying the face of a buck, glassy eyes and all, mounted on the wall. She looked from side to side, then up to where the creature’s head loomed over the room.

“Hey, Gary,” RoAnn asked, “where’s the rest of that moose?”

No one else in the room remembered that hilarious scene from the movie, Arthur. But Daryl could not resist a follow-up question.

“Are these hot dogs made of moose meat, Gary? Coyote maybe?” Gary was not amused.

Smug bastard. Come out here some night by yourself, any of ya, and see how funny we can be with fresh out-of-towners to toy with.

“Y’all better scoot on outta here now,” Gary said, opening the screen door and pointing to Ranger Mabry’s truck. “Verne here will give you a good tour of our neck of the woods.”

“Gary, when we come back, we’d like to do an interview with you, being an expert on this area and what goes on around here,” Cassie said. “You’ll still be here, right?”

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“For you, anything, ma’am. What do you want to ask me?”

“Couple of things, hoping to get an insider’s thoughts on how folks here see the anchorwoman’s kidnapping. You know, her pro-fur attitude versus the anti-fur folks. Oh, and maybe a question or two about the bear poaching problem. If there is a problem, how do we stop the bad guys? Things like that.”

“About the bear poaching thing, you ought to talk to the ranger here about that. We have some bear hunters who come up here in season, legally, of course, but the poaching thing, I can’t say much except, uh, I’m against it.”

“Great,” RoAnn interrupted. “We’ll look forward to putting you on TV as being against bear poaching. You’ll be Scary Gary, the good guy.”

They all laughed, but briefly. Ranger Mabry was revving his truck motor, eager to give these TV people what they need and then get them away from his bailiwick and out of his hair. *** Earl was in the shed, where the freezer and refrigerator were installed against a rear wall, loading a Sig Sauer semi-automatic handgun when Gary walked in.

“I need your help, Earl,” Gary said. “You know those townies, the TV people, right? They’re getting a tour of the woods around here by the ranger, Verne. I’d like you to be a sort of undercover observer. Take our small truck and keep an eye on them, where they go, what they do.”

“Do I hide from them or what, Gary? Do you want me to write down stuff? Or I can take the two-way radio or…”

“Naw, don’t worry about that. Best thing is to stay out of the way and watch ’em. You can do that, Earl. Just be sure Verne doesn’t spot you sneakin’ around out there. Stay in the underbrush, not on the main trails. Park the truck and mostly walk. Now, repeat back to me what you’re gonna do.”

Earl was pumped. He finished loading the pistol, holstered it, picked up the rifle standing in the corner, and grabbed a box of rounds for each of the guns.

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Gary didn’t say nothin’ about taking weapons, but hey, he didn’t say not to. What if somethin’ comes up?

Earl poked his head out the front door of the store-office.

No sign of the ranger, his truck or his visiting troublemakers.

Two minutes later Earl was in Gary’s small truck, moving slowly along an interior trail. He watched Gary take hunters that way a few times.

Odds are they’re going the same way. Take a chance. Plenty of time. Look around, not like I’m a stalker or anything. *** Rudy was sweating quite a bit for a man doing no physical activity on the crisp, fresh day in late spring. He was working on a plan, but he was too nervous to look into the streaky mirror in the cabin’s bathroom, afraid the magical mirror would become a wanted poster with his face on it.

He knew his survival relied on leaving Gary’s place, the north woods, the state and, for good measure, the USA. He also assumed Gary knew about the murder warrant in Florida.

Gary gets cash for poaching bear parts. Wonder what he’d get for delivering my sorry ass on a platter to Ranger what’s his name?

Now, calm down. Angie is on the way. That’s the first, no, the second part of my plan. First, I need to sneak out of here in my stupid shit Chevy, then leave it at the Cracker Barrel, meet up with Angie and hotfoot it, rather, hot-wheel it, to her place in Atlanta. Then, get money, from her or Brock, maybe both. How’s that, genius, what’s next? *** Gary briefly panicked when he realized Earl took a pistol and a rifle with him to track the TV news team and the ranger. Gary knew his little brother had an itchy trigger finger since he was twelve. Hunting birds with a pal, Earl shot his friend rather than the bird. It was an accident and the other boy escaped with a flesh wound in his butt, mostly in his jeans. But Earl never could 232

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shake the nickname of Trigger or Itchy Trigger or, eventually, plain old Itchy.

The TV bitches with their nosy questions should be on their way out of this area by mid-evening with Verne’s blessing and gratitude. My next move is to get Rudy out of here tonight. Hell, I’ll give him gas money. But why? Nope, I won’t do that. He’s an idiot.

He’s on his own.

The double knock on the cabin door wrenched Rudy out of his shallow daydream. He tiptoed to the window and slid the flimsy curtain aside enough to see Gary, looking at his watch, then skyward, then back to the door, his knuckles poised to knock again.

Rudy opened the door and motioned Gary into the room.

Both men looked around jerkily, like woodpeckers between pecks. Having checked his phony aw-shucks demeanor at the door, Gary spoke first.

“You realize, Rudy, while you’re here, nobody else here is safe. You have to go. I don’t care where, but away.”

“I agree, Gary, and I’ll be outta here in less than an hour. I can…”

“No, Rudy, I mean it.” Gary interrupted. “I already have two TV news women, a cameraman and a ranger poking around.

They’re out in the woods right now and they said they want to interview me about bear poaching when they get back. What do you think of that, Mr. Man-About-Town big shot? Here’s an idea. How about you go introduce yourself to the news freaks and tell them all about gall bladders and bear claws and your Asian friends. Man, they’ll love putting you on TV. Oh, wait.

You already are on TV. Look a little different, eh, what with not wearing your tux these days. Oh, and you forgot to shave. And, and, oh yeah, your pearly white teeth aren’t as shiny these days as they were on TV at that charity shindig in Florida.”

“Stop it,” Rudy said with a semi-yell. “Shut up for a minute, you windbag. I am leaving. Now knock it off. I’ll be thrilled to be rid of your phony baloney Gary. ‘Scary Gary.’ What a jackass.

Scaarree-Gaarree. Jesus.”

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Gary stood, gave Rudy a vigorous, heartfelt middle finger and, as he walked out, said, “You better be gone when I get back.

If you’re not, I will take you into the woods, pretend you’re a bear and shoot you. But, before you croak, I’ll cut out your gall bladder and sell it to some guy in Seoul. Rhymes with hole. As in asshole.”

As he drove up the trail to the highway, the ragged rumble of Gary’s pickup truck faded along with the thickening buttermilk sky. Within fifteen minutes, he was enjoying a full flask at his lips, revenge against Rudy on his mind and a Waffle House meal in his headlights.

When Gary pulled into the parking lot and looked into the brightly lighted restaurant, he saw some of the people who were in the crowd when Cassie and RoAnn did their TV report from there, the newest sudden celebrities in town. As he entered, Gary glad-handed a bunch of them and went to a stool at the counter. Roz was still there, being Roz, in charge and loving it.

Her new TV fame created an adrenalin rush powerful enough to withstand a double shift.

Rudy’s adrenalin was rushing too, as he moved fast, searching Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures store and office for loot.

Pathetic. Nothing here worth stealing, all this touristy crap.

Look at that little animal on the wall. Was it a squirrel? Really?

Who mounts a squirrel on the wall? Scary Gary’s probably the first.

Rudy went into the two small bedrooms where Gary and his brother Earl slept.

A wristwatch on one dresser, a lighter, silver I think. What else? Can’t carry anything heavy with me. I’ll be the poster child for carry-on air travel by this time tomorrow.

Rudy jammed a man-sized gold ring, resting in a corner of a small top drawer, in his pocket with a few other tokens of Gary’s life.

An old, wooden roll top desk, which took up much of the smaller of the two bedrooms, yielded a half-full checkbook and a small bank pouch the size of a flatbread Subway sandwich. Inside were two hundred-dollar bills, three fifties, a few twenties and eight or nine ones.

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Petty cash, but I need it. Screw you, Scary Gary. Small pleasures.

I wonder if they have lottery tickets at the Cracker Barrel.

Rudy was back in his Chevy rental in three minutes and on his way to meet up with Angie. He also thought how nice it would be to have a friendly poker game when he arrived in Atlanta. He knew it was a stupid idea. He knew his only priority was to get as much cash as he could as fast as possible and then disappear. Still, the thought of a full house or four of a kind made his blood rush.

235

48 NORTH GEORGIA MOUNTAINS Verne Mabry glanced at the rear-view mirror in his pickup truck at Cassie and RoAnn in the back seat. Daryl was in the front passenger seat, watching the trail unfold as they moved deeper into the brush. For his video camera, Daryl checked the light filtering through the trees.

“It’s a great place to work, up here in these mountains,” Verne said to his Atlanta guests. “I’ve lived and worked in big cities in my career, Atlanta, Washington DC, even New Orleans for a short time, but eventually my wife and I realized we preferred to live here. Irene’s her name, my wife. The folks here are downto-earth, hard-working people, God-fearing, you know? Irene is a registered nurse at the county hospital here. Loves it, says she wouldn’t work in a high-pressure urban hospital for twice the pay. And me, I couldn’t work in a big city anyway, not as a forest ranger whose favorite day off is spent hunting or fishing. But I do run on, I know. Are y’all asleep back there?”

As he spoke, he turned to Cassie and RoAnn and almost ran off the trail into a tree.

“What the hell are you doing with that gun, lady? Put it down this second,” Verne said, flipping open his holster.

RoAnn, looking flustered, blushed, then held the compact pistol on her lap, but pointed away from the front seats.

“It’s my gun, perfectly legal,” RoAnn said, in a matter of fact tone. “It’s for my personal protection.”

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“Not in my truck. It’s likely to get you killed.” The ranger was livid. “Are you scared somebody here is going to attack you?”

RoAnn shook her head.

“Are you planning to shoot somebody today?” he asked, sputtering with anger. Again, RoAnn shook her head.

The ranger pulled over, stopped and stared straight ahead, appraising the situation. A moment later, he climbed out of the truck, turned to face his passengers and told them to do the same.

“Slowly, please, one at a time. Leave the gun on the seat. Do not touch it until I say.” Daryl held his video camera at his side, eased two steps back, casually, and pressed the record button.

Verne, who didn’t notice, holstered his service sidearm. Cassie and RoAnn stood in the weeds a few feet away from the truck.

“Look, Ranger Mabry, what’s the big deal?” RoAnn asked, in a manner she would use in the newsroom with a mistake-prone intern.

“You know what, Ms. RoAnn? If you are as rude and insulting at your precious TV news place as you are up here, you may need your little gun. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to take a walk into the bush now. We’ll leave the truck here. You can bring your gun, but put it in your purse or a side pocket. I don’t want to see it. If I see it on your person, I will shoot it off you and apologize for whatever collateral damage occurs. Clear?”

“Fine,” RoAnn said. ”I have a conceal carry permit, you know.”

“Me too,” Verne said. “But mine is bigger than yours. So, kindly put away your pistol and keep walking up that overgrown path. We’ll see if we can find you all some wildlife to look at.”

After twenty minutes of walking and watching, the only wildlife they encountered were two squirrels, maybe because Cassie talked the whole time, asking questions of Ranger Mabry while Daryl captured the exchange on video. She knew most of the answers, but needed to record the ranger saying it out there in the wilderness. It made for good television.

“Is illegal bear hunting and bear poaching a problem?”

“Yes.” “Do hunters and poachers use bait illegally?”

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“Some do.”

“Are they ever caught and punished?”

“Often, yes.”

“Why do they keep doing it?”

“Because they make big money selling bear parts, especially gall bladders and paws.”

“What good is a bear’s gall bladder?”

“Millions of people, especially in Asia, swear gall bladders and the bile they produce are valuable in treating illnesses and diseases. You name it, the gall bladder can cure it.”

“Hang on a sec, Cassie,” Daryl said, stepping over a tree limb in the path. He noticed, beyond the clearing, what seemed to be a large bird on the ground, tugging on something.

“Jesus, guys, hold up,” Daryl said, walking off the trail toward the bird. He zoomed in the camera lens for a closer look as the turkey vulture swooped into the air, a ragged piece of what appeared to be fur-covered flesh hanging from its beak.

“Whoa, what the…are you guys seeing this?” Daryl shouted as he followed the bird with his video camera.

A second or two later another vulture emerged from behind the carcass and flew above Cassie, RoAnn and the ranger. Cassie ducked. Ranger Mabry waved his arms to scare the vulture away.

RoAnn screamed, groping for her gun. She fired twice at the big birds as they flew by.

“Son of a bitch, I’m hit,” Ranger Mabry said, falling to one knee, holding his left hand over his ear. “I’m hit, you idiot. You shot me!”

Shaken, Daryl crouched, his camera still on. He panned the camera to the right and saw the ranger on his knee. Moving farther right, he saw clearly the partially consumed body of a black bear, ripped open, its paws missing. Another ten feet away he saw the bodies of two bear cubs in similar positions with wounds like the mother’s.

Daryl started to stand up for a better view of the entire frightening scene. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. Daryl hit the ground with bullets whizzing by. Then he heard a man’s voice, screaming with a gurgling sound, “You bastards, you shot me. I’ll kill you dead.” BLAM, BLAM. 238

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Mabry saw a figure with a rifle coming through the trees, stumbling, falling, getting up, falling again. The ranger took aim and fired. The man tumbled backwards and hit the ground.

The silence that followed was broken only by the ranger’s grunting in pain as he tried to stay standing. His ear was bloody, nicked by the shot from RoAnn’s pistol. The ranger scanned the clearing, swinging his pistol with both hands, not knowing where more shooting might come from. His line of sight caught the lens of Daryl’s camera, also scanning the scene. He saw Cassie, lying on her back on the ground. She coughed and made choking sounds. He couldn’t see her face. Daryl stood, rushed to Cassie lay and saw a sickening pattern of blood oozing from her chest and her stomach.

Ranger Mabry shuffled over, blood dripping from the lobe where a piece of his ear had been.

“Cassie’s hurt bad, Verne, real bad. I’m calling 9-1-1.”

“No I’ll do that and direct them to here. Use your jacket and press hard on her chest and wherever else there’s major bleeding.

I have a first aid kit in the truck, but she needs more than that.

Keep talking to her.”

Ranger Mabry punched in 9-1-1 on his cell phone. Then he saw RoAnn, lying motionless on her back, most of the left half of her face missing.

As he finished with 9-1-1, he hobbled to RoAnn. No movement, no pulse, no breathing.

Mabry sat on the grass, RoAnn’s puddling blood staining his uniform pants and closed his eyes.

Lord, save Miss Cassie and the soul of Miss RoAnn. And please, God, have mercy on the rest of us sorry sinners.

239

49 NORTH GEORGIA Rudy pondered what to do about Brock, Angie and the two girls, Spring and Summer. He thought of what he hated about his non-deluxe rental sedan. Laughing, he pulled onto the highway and headed south. It helped for a few minutes, knowing every minute improved his chances of escaping Gary’s world and the mountain people, aliens in plaid. Rudy then focused on how to get out of the country.

Bahamas? Baja? Canada? Yes, Canada. Wide open spaces, live and let live people. Didn’t they just get a new prime minister? Don something. Green? Yeah, Don Green. Don’t know about him, but his wife looks really hot on TV. Valerie, that’s it. Sweet. Wonder if they have casinos in the Yukon?

Then a rush of real life washed over him, thinking about the best path to a poker table there in North Georgia. He wished his iPhone could find him the nearest game.

Angie could wait for me at the Cracker Barrel for a couple of hours. I’d call her, claim a flat tire and buy enough time for a score.

Still, the odds are long I could stumble into a game.

He shivered again, anxiety squelching his normal state, bravado. He was half an hour away from Angie. It seemed like forever.

The four-color neon sign loomed over the GET & GO convenience store like a unibrowed monster. Rudy barely made the exit, then found a space near the front door. The sign in the store window, Georgia Lottery Here, sealed the deal for him.

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There it was, amidst the signs for ice, beer, pizza by the slice and Pampers.

Inside, beer seemed the most popular purchase among the men in the checkout line. Lottery scratch-off tickets were on large rolls behind the counter. Rudy bought a jumbo Snickers bar and stood in line. Ten minutes later, he was back in the car with both hands full of Lottery tickets. He locked the door and hurriedly used the edge of a quarter to scratch the tickets as if on some down-to-the-wire deadline. Several times he stuck a ticket into his shirt pocket. More ended up on the floor or in the passenger seat. If a stranger walked by the car and sneaked a peek in the closed window, he might linger for a look, then go into the store with some smart remarks for the clerk, such as “Get and Go? Hell, it’s more like gettin’ it on out there in your parking lot.”

Rudy did not break even, but at least he was in a better mood than before he stopped at the GET & GO. He focused on the Snickers and on finding the best place to leave the car when he met Angie at the Cracker Barrel. *** Two emergency medical techs were out of the ambulance and running through the woods before the third EMT stopped her ambulance, a virtual rolling hospital, on the side of the main trail.

Daryl crouched next to Cassie, holding his jacket over the two major wounds, pushing hard, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“Over here,” he shouted. “She’s hit bad, barely conscious.

Help her, please!”

“There’s another down over here,” called Joy, the female EMT who was driving the ambulance.

Daryl stood to make way for one of the techs attending to Cassie. “We have one black female, multiple gunshot wounds, critical. Need the chopper, stat,” he said into a radio attached to a shirt pocket.

“You hurt, buddy?” the EMT asked Daryl.

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“No, no. What about the other woman down over there?”

Daryl asked, pointing to where RoAnn lay. “She hasn’t moved or made a sound since the shooting started.”

“Joy, status?” the tech with Cassie said to the one with RoAnn. “Not responsive,” Joy answered. “No pulse, no breathing.

Apparent bullet wound entry left jaw, no visible exit wound.”

“County Six to base,” The EMT with Cassie spoke into the radio.

“Six, go ahead.”

“Need backup. Status: One white female, unresponsive.

Need coroner on scene to pronounce. Person number two, aforementioned African-American female, major gunshot wounds, critical. Notify county hospital. Likely need gut surgery.

Will need blood. Number three, white male, wildlife ranger, name Mabry. Non-lethal gunshot wound to one ear. Up and around, helping, but will need medical care at the hospital.

Person number four…”

“Four?” asked the dispatcher.

“Repeat, person four, white male with one bullet wound right shoulder, appears through and through. Alert but in pain. May need blood. Also, you’re going to need some forensics out here pretty quick to sort out who shot who and why. There’s so much blood on the ground the critters will be all over this place.”

Daryl checked focus on his camera, which was still operating, and aimed at the medical responders. He captured the medevac helicopter touching down in a clearing two hundred feet away and took close-ups of Cassie and RoAnn being loaded carefully onto the chopper. Nobody believed RoAnn was still alive, but there was protocol. And procedure. And respect.

The EMTs slammed the doors and the chopper lifted up and sped out toward County Hospital. Ranger Mabry refused to go, not wanting to keep the chopper on the ground a second longer than necessary. The EMTs had stopped the bleeding on the ranger’s ear and dressed the wound. He was surprised to see Earl was the other wounded man lying in the ambulance. Verne’s shot had hit him in the shoulder. An EMT had applied bandages on his shoulder and handcuffs on his wrists. Earl, Verne and 242

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Daryl were in the same ambulance on the drive to the hospital; nobody spoke. Verne called rangers headquarters, gave a brief phone report and urged them to retrieve his official truck from the woods. He phoned his wife, told her he’d be home late with, as he put it, “Quite a story to tell.” *** On the 20-minute drive from Atlanta to her rendezvous with Rudy at the Cracker Barrel, Angle formed a plan, an outline of an idea, on how to deal with Rudy.

Whoever said revenge is a dish best served cold didn’t get it quite right. I’m going to stay cool, follow the plan and ruin his life without breaking a sweat. Me, not him. He’ll be sweating before I’m finished. Not to mention life in prison for killing that poor woman in Florida. And then another life sentence for the kidnapping.

Sweet. But I especially need to find a way to make him suffer for the way he’s treating me. Wish I knew somebody who runs a Turkish prison who would entertain Rudy for a year or two.

Angie paused a moment to appreciate that mental image, then repeated her memorized list. First she checked the small pill bottle, about a third filled with white powder, in her bag.

She’d have to do without her prescription sleep aid for a while, but it would be worth it. She had also bought plenty of Rudy’s favorite bourbon, which, with the powder, would put him out for a few hours. Next she would call that detective, Jimmy Hagan, and offer to take him to his number one criminal at the moment, Rudy.

“I cannot wait,” she said out loud. Angie’s only concern was her own criminal activity as part of the group that had kidnapped Nikki Z. They’ll probably drop the charges on me if I deliver Rudy and Brock too. Better get that in writing though. And maybe Nikki will vouch for us with the cops by telling them how I engineered getting medical care and all. I sorta did, anyway. I kept Brock out of the house when that animal doctor went over.

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At the highway exit to the Cracker Barrel, Angie drove down the off ramp past two gas stations and a Taco Bell and turned left into the parking area. Cracker Barrel parking was dinner hourcrowded. Rudy had told her he would try to be there first and to look for his car. She inched her car forward, up and down a couple of the aisles, looking for a parking place. A woman came out of the Cracker Barrel alone and walked to a car. It would have been a good place for Angie, except the woman reached in on the driver side, retrieved a small purse and went back into the restaurant. Angie told herself not to be annoyed at losing a parking place.

It’s Rudy’s fault anyway, insisting I come all the way up here. I really want to make him pay. What if, uh, what if I used one of my steak knives at the condo and cut off his little finger while he’s out from the booze and pills? Yeah, one finger. A pinky. The left one.

Enjoying her fantasy, she didn’t notice Rudy drive up behind her until he flashed his bright lights.

She saw him in the rear view mirror, waving at her, a big smile in place, mouthing the words, “Hi Angie, baby.”

She smiled back, forcing a wide-eyed look. “Prick.”

He waved, signaling her to follow him to the far right corner of the parking lot, as far from the front of the restaurant as possible. He put the rental paperwork in his tote bag, locked the car, pocketed the keys and walked toward the passenger side of Angie’s car.

I could run over him right now, right now. Do it, do it. No, too easy. Later. Get your ass in my car, you prick. You prick you. Prick Rudy. Prickity-prick-prick. I love hating you. I really do. Prick Rudy.

244

50 NORTH GEORGIA & ATLANTA “Sir, sir,” said a nurse whose booming voice could be heard in the next county, “Please take your cell phone outside. Now, please.”

Daryl ignored the request, pressing his iPhone closer to his ear.

“Hello, GNS? Is this Global News Service? Newsroom? Listen.

This is an emergency. This is Daryl from the Law and Order unit on assignment in north Georgia with Cassandra Page. Get me Bren Forrest. It’s an emergency. Yes, that Mrs. Forrest. It’s about Cassie. C-a-s-s-i-e. Yes. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. ” Daryl clicked off and walked quickly to the nurses’ station outside the room where two doctors were working on Cassie.

“Nurse, how’s she doing? She’s gonna make it, isn’t she?”

“We cannot give out any information, young man. Please wait in the visitors’ room down the hall and a doctor will give you a report as soon as possible. Are you family?”

“Uh, yes, I’m her brother.”

The nurse looked at Cassie’s admitting record, then back at Daryl. She noticed his eyes were red and moist.

“Her brother? Really?”

Daryl caught himself and cleared his throat.

“Oh, yes, I know, my parents adopted Cassie as a child.

Anyway, please tell me how she is. Please.”

“I am busy helping the doctors. All I know is that she is in critical condition.” The nurse then leaned closer to Daryl and 245

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whispered, “I heard them talking about flying her to Atlanta.

That’s all I know. Now please sit over there, sir, and let us do our jobs.”

Daryl’s phone chimed.

“Daryl here.”

“Daryl, Bren Forrest. What’s going on?”

“It’s bad, Ms. Forrest. Cassie was shot by some guy in the woods up here. All I can get from the local hospital is that she’s in critical condition. And they’re talking about flying her to Atlanta. But I…” Bren interrupted. “Daryl, what are you talking about? Cassie shot? In the woods? Slow down, Daryl. Shot? Who shot her?

Where again? Is she all right?”

“I don’t know how she is, but they choppered her to the hospital and she’s in the critical care area now.”

“Daryl, we’ll arrange a med flight immediately. I’ll phone myself and pay whatever it takes to get Cassie on a helicopter to Piedmont Hospital. Once we get that firmed up, you can fill me in. For now, hang on at the hospital, watch over Cassie’s situation and stay with her until her chopper is on the way there. You’ll be our on-air guy, live from up there until we send more people to help you early tomorrow. What have I missed, Daryl? And what about RoAnn? Can she help you with the reporting for a couple of days?”

Daryl choked up, wiped his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Bren, ma’am, RoAnn didn’t make it.”

“Oh god!”

“She was shot in the head or neck,” Daryl said. “The EMTs worked on her there in the woods and in the ambulance, but they knew right away she was dead. DOA, the coroner said.”

Bren paused, shaking her head, wiping away tears, trying to be the hard-news person she knew how to be.

“Daryl, you’re our rock up there, so, do what you can and… and…oh, call me back soon with an update.”

She clicked off and put her head in her hands. Her mind was flooded with frightening memories of another life-and-death flashpoint back in 1999. Her husband died in a car accident. Bren 246

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was critically injured in the crash and lost her unborn child. *** Bren willed her eyes open and her brain to leave the longago nightmare to focus on her friend Cassie, her prized on-air anchorwoman and investigative TV star. The phone chimed.

Bren drank half a tumbler of the pitcher on her bedroom desk, then set the phone on speaker.

“Max here. Daryl gave me a briefing. It sucks. Can I help you arrange things for Cassie’s care and all that? Or would you rather I handle all our news coverage of this thing, coordinating with you. I’m here as long as it takes.”

“Thanks, Max. The news coverage, all of it, the talk shows, it’s all yours until…Jesus, I mean, oh , Max, you know what to do. It’s your call. Wall-to-wall on this story, whatever you want.

Also, Max, I need a big favor. Can you call DK, the news director at Channel 4, and make sure he knows about RoAnn in case he hasn’t heard?”

“You bet, Bren, I mean ma’am.”

“Bren. Now, Max, my biggest favor. Would you contact Jimmy, I mean Detective Hagan, and tell him about Cassie? Please, Max. I don’t think I can right now.”

“Please, ma’am, Bren, don’t ask me to do that. It’s…”

“No, no, you’re right. It needs to come from me. I’m sorry, Max, it’s my job.”

Bren’s phone rang while she was pulling up Jimmy’s office number at Atlanta PD. “Bren, Daryl here. No news on Cassie. They’re still working on her. The head nurse says their medevac chopper is available and I called the pilot the nurse said to contact. He and two EMTs are ready to take off as soon as the docs now treating her say the word. I think they’ve already decided to get Cassie to Atlanta as soon as possible.”

“Daryl, can you get me a name and number of the doctor up there who can brief the doctors here in Atlanta? While you’re doing that, I’ll call Doctor Tomé and call you right back. Thanks.”

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“Wait, Bren, did you say Dr. Tomé ? Sierra Tomé? They call her the celebrity surgeon, right?”

Dr. Sierra Tomé was opening the door to her tenth story condo apartment on Peachtree Street when the personal cell phone in her purse rang. She was glad to see that. She had left her home at sunrise for an eleven-hour day at Piedmont Hospital and was not eager to return to work after sunset that night. The caller ID brightened her mood, too, as the call was from her good friend, Bren Forrest.

“Hey there, Bren, how’s my favorite newslady,” Sierra said, a smile in her voice, “What’re you up to this evening?”

“We need you, Sie, right now,” Bren said, choking up. “It’s Cassie. She was shot working on a story. She’s in critical condition at a small hospital in the mountains. They’re stabilizing her and their medevac helicopter is flying her to Atlanta in a few minutes.

Sie, please, please call up there and have them take Cassie to you at Piedmont. Can you do that, Sie?” “Of course, but the default place to take trauma victims is Grady Hospital. It’s known for that and they do great work and…”

“Come on Sie, you know Cassie and you know your reputation as a surgery wizard and…”

“Bren, let me call the doctor up there, get a read on Cassie’s condition “O-R Nurses station,” a woman answered, listened to Sierra for a moment, then interrupted, “Yes, Dr. Tomé? I’ll get Dr. McCoy.” Daryl positioned himself so he could hear snatches of the conversation between the doctors : “Major internal injuries… erratic blood pressure…critical condition…touch-and-go… chest tube…transmediastinal injury…left chest whited out… possible related injuries…liver…dead tissue…v-fib” and more.

“Yes, Dr. Tomé,” said Dr. McCoy. “We will prep her for the chopper flight to Piedmont Hospital and alert the flight crew.

The EMTs aboard will keep her stable. Hang on…Yes, I will let her know. Thirty minutes. Copy. Did you hear that, Dr. Tomé?

ETA to Piedmont is thirty minutes. Departing in nine or ten minutes.”

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Sierra phoned Bren and briefed her on Cassie’s situation.

“Will you be her primary doctor, Sie?” Bren asked. Sierra could feel Bren’s anxiety, hear it in her voice.

“Yes, of course, Bren, I’m on my way to the hospital now.

Cassie should be on the helipad there within thirty or forty minutes. We will be ready. But Bren, sweetie, I have to say this.

Her odds of survival are not good. If she’s stable when she gets here, that improves her chances. But if she’s not stable, Bren, studies show unstable patients usually die.”

Sierra entered an alert code on her hospital cell phone, pushing hard, as though it might help the elevator go faster.

When the doors opened onto the lobby, the night doorman blew his whistle and waved to a passing taxi. The driver hit the brakes and swerved off Peachtree Street into the covered driveway in front of the building.

“Where to, Mack?” the driver asked the doorman.

“Piedmont hospital, the main entrance on Peachtree Street.

Dr. Tomé is on her, oh, here she comes now.”

The doorman handed the fifty-dollar bill to the cab driver.

“Stay with her until you know you’re at the right entrance to the hospital and she’s inside.”

“No problem. Must be some big-time patient, eh?”

“Don’t know about that. But Dr. Tomé is as big time a doctor as it gets.”

Sierra bolted through the open door into the back seat of the taxi.

“Piedmont, right ma’am, main entrance?”

“Yes, hurry, please.”

Since traffic was light for an Atlanta night, Sierra estimated that within fifteen minutes she could be scrubbing up and getting briefed by the EMTs on Cassie’s helicopter as it neared the hospital heliport.

The cabbie glanced at Sierra through the rear view mirror.

Leering was more accurate.

“I never saw a doctor like you before. You a TV doctor? A model maybe?”

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Sierra was used to that sort of reaction but was in no mood for it this night.

“Driver, watch the road. Get me to the hospital in five minutes, or I’ll get out my scalpel and relieve you of an extremity or two. A pair would be nice.”

Her voice changed to a low, gritty growl. She leaned closer to the driver’s ear, “Now, drive.”

She sat back in the seat and did a silent inventory of her situation.

My brain is in top form. My adrenalin is normal, considering.

If they can get Cassie here alive, I’ll keep her so.

Her mumbled prayer was reflexive, but real.

I can do this. I know I can. As soon as we figure out what this is.

250

51 ATLANTA Jimmy Hagan’s right eye was blinking twice as often as his left as he drove from the TV station to his office at Atlanta PD. He wasn’t sure when that eye thing started this time, but he wasn’t surprised. Erratic blinking was with him as a sign of stress since his days at the police academy. Some years ago a doctor told him it was nerves.

“The best medicine, young man,” the physician said, “would be for you to pull the plug on your hyperactive life style for a few days. Go fishing, meditate or see a movie, a romantic comedy maybe.”

Jimmy changed doctors. This time, his self-diagnosis was easy. He was knee-deep in a high-profile abduction of a TV celebrity, whose captors seemed unhinged and short-fused. Add to that, a woman who worked with the kidnapped TV news anchor was murdered, probably by her sometime boyfriend, now the subject of a major manhunt. Top brass at Atlanta PD was pressuring Jimmy, their chief of detectives, to hurry up and solve the crimes and catch the criminals. Marinating in that mess was the acrimony-tinged dispute Jimmy and Cassie were enduring over how to deal with the demands of their high-powered careers. And the demands of each other.

At the next traffic light, Jimmy turned the opposite direction from police headquarters and headed toward his past, a unique Atlanta neighborhood where Jimmy grew up: Cabbagetown, a rough-and-tumble community in Jimmy’s childhood, where 251

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a boy sometimes needed to fight to live in peace. And where a graduate of Cabbagetown’s street smarts learned a few of life’s lessons. Jimmy’s favorite then and now – “Don’t Let The Bastards Get You Down.”

Until Jimmy’s mother died a year ago, he tried to have dinner with her every Sunday. She would rail about “those new people” up the street or complain about the neighborhood kids.

“All they do is hang out,” she’d say, pointing to the nearest corner. “They don’t come in after dark. But you Jimmy, you were a good boy back then.”

A mention of the old days put a smile on her face. Jimmy’s memories were more factual than fun. He parked his car in front of his mother’s home, the house where he was born. The place seemed huge when he toddled, small when he rebelled and smelly when his drunken father raged and stumbled and threw up on the linoleum in the bathroom. The houses were much alike.

Some people called them “shotgun” houses because you could fire a shotgun through the front door and hit the back door. The rooms were one behind the other, living room, bedroom, kitchen and bath, all the width of the house, nineteen feet.

Jimmy’s great grandfather, Byrd William Hagan, was born in 1895 in Rabun County, Georgia in the lower areas of the north Georgia mountains. Many of these Appalachian white people, whose ancestors came from England, Scotland and Ireland, found work in the mills, including Cabbagetown.

Jimmy went to school mostly with black children from the public housing projects. Perhaps for that reason, he developed no racial prejudices. For part of his three years in the army he was an MP. He loved police work and went to the Atlanta Police Academy, graduating in the top ten percent of his class.

Promotions to detective and the homicide division added to his reputation as a cop with whom fellow officers of all races could get along.

Jimmy smiled to himself as he started the car and moved out into the street, remembering the first time he took Cassie to his mom’s house for Sunday dinner.

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“Remember, Cass, she’s getting on in years and sometimes doesn’t think before she speaks.”

“Don’t worry, Jimmy, if she is your mom, she’s probably too cool for school.”

Jimmy’s mother opened the screen door wide.

“Hello, Cassie, please come in. I’m Willa, Jimmy’s mother.

It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re such a pretty girl.” She gave Cassie a hug and gently pushed her through the door into the living room. “Come on, Jimmy, come on over here and take Miss Cassie’s arm. I’ve never known you to be shy, boy, so give her a hug, snug as a bug in a rug.”

“Jimmy, you’re sweet, but I am surprised. Why, when your daddy was your age he and I were holding hands and drinkin’ sweet tea out in the back yard by now.”

“Mom, I’m really glad for you to meet Cassie.”

“I feel like I know you, Cassie, out there fightin’ crime all the time. Can I get you some sweet tea? You know, I always hear celebrities say TV puts ten pounds on a person. Not on you, sweetie. But you do look darker here than on TV. Why’s that?”

Recalling that awkward moment, Jimmy laughed out loud as he sped of Cabbagetown at five miles over the speed limit. But he couldn’t outrun his worry about the conflict with Cassie.

Why can’t she realize it’s gone too far, at least for now? If I keep giving her inside stuff way before other news outlets, they’re gonna figure it out. And there goes my job. Maybe Cassie’s too. I wish she’d get her butt back to Atlanta so we could talk it out.

Jimmy thumbed Cassie’s cell as he neared police headquarters.

After nine or ten rings, no response, no message capability, he ended the call.

253

52 NORTH GEORGIA & ATLANTA The fixed smile on Angie’s face was hard to keep as she watched Rudy slam the door of his dreaded Chevy rental. He tossed the keys in the air several times, the way an anxious relief pitcher might flip a ball in and out of his glove, eager to answer the call to the bullpen.

All I have to do is play Angie a little longer. She’ll melt if I give her the full Rudy rush. I need to get enough cash and a private jet to the nearest country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with us. Or at least to Miami. From there I could find a place to hide in comfort. Hell, maybe I could continue to run the bear-poaching gig. And the gambling scene there needs some new blood, so to speak. Now I am ready for my performance for Angie, making her think we’re hooked up, together, whatever.

Rudy yanked open the passenger side front door to Angie’s sedan, slid over the seat and pulled her to him with one arm, putting his other hand on the back of her neck.

“Angie, I owe you, baby. Thanks a bunch for letting me stay with you a few days, until the dust settles a bit. Hey, do we have time for a takeout order of some of that Cracker Barrel country cooking? I’m starved and I can smell it from here. What do you think?”

Angie ignored the request. “Attention everyone,” she said to no one, with a tone so icy it almost activated the automatic seat warmers in her car. “It’s official. Mr. Rudy is hungry. Alert the media.”

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“Does that mean you missed me, Angie?” Rudy asked.

“Lots of folks are looking for you, Rudy. Must be nice, all that popularity. But on a lighter note, did you really do all those bad things they’re saying?”

Without waiting for an answer, she gunned the motor and headed the car out of the restaurant parking lot and onto the highway access road.

“Not that it matters in the overall scheme of things,” Angie continued, “but I am curious. Did you kill that woman in Florida?

They say you slaughtered her at her apartment. You know, the girl in that photo with you that’s been on every TV set in America by now. Did you do that, Rudy? Honey?”

Angie’s tone morphed to matter-of-fact, calm, flat, more like a jaded court clerk reading a killer’s rap sheet than a worried girlfriend confronting the sensational charges against her man.

“Maybe you should contact the police and explain the mistake, Rudy. They’d probably check on a few things and be able to clear your name.”

Is she sincerely serious or seriously crazy?

She leaned over toward him. He pulled away, not sure whether she would give him a passionate kiss or bare her fledgling fangs and eat his face off. *** “I guess we’ll have to kill you if things don’t change around here,” Brock said to Nikki Z, still duct-taped to the bed. Groggy, she made a snorting noise and closed her eyes again, hoping Brock would think she was asleep.

“You’re the worst hostage in history,” Brock said, shouting and slurring his words. “Nobody even wants us to release you.

How’s it feel to be worth zero, Nikki? That’s hilarious. The Z in the exalted anchor bimbo’s name now stands for zero. Ladies and gentlemen,” his arms in the air like an expansive master of ceremonies, “I give you the one and only lady with a stupid coat made with dead sables. Hip, hip hooray.”

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“You’re smashed again, you weasel,” Nikki said. “Leave me alone, Brock.”

Spring and Summer didn’t think Brock would hurt them and maybe not Nikki either, but they stood back, trying not to look him in the eye. They were familiar with Brock drunk and belligerent, so they stayed clear when he was drinking and waving his revolver around. In his absence they referred to him as Mr. Pap, the derisive name the TV News Director used when answering Brock’s calls about ransom demands. Once Spring let the Mr. Pap name slip, when Brock was watching the TV news.

“Shut your traps,” Brock snapped at the girls’ giggles. “How could you think this is funny? Hey, answer me.”

He remembered that slight then and, drunkenly, decided to rectify it once and for all. Brock pulled his revolver from his khaki pants pocket and pressed the muzzle of the .38 against Spring’s forehead. She yelped and covered her face with her hands. Brock shoved her hands away, then moved the gun barrel between her breasts. She tried to bend over in self-defense, but Brock forced her upright, pushing the gun under her chin. Spring shook, her breath coming in bursts. Tears flooded her eyes and flowed down her face. Brock pushed Spring away from himself with the gun barrel. She looked down, her face in her hands, trembling, sobbing.

“Look at me, Spring. You too, Summer,” he said, waving the gun toward her as she hugged a pillow at the edge of the couch.

“See this gun, girls?” Brock asked with a look of contempt. “This is my best friend right now. A better friend than any of you are to me. It points where I point it. And it makes a loud noise when I squeeze the trigger.”

Brock thrust the revolver upward toward the ceiling of the living room and fired. A metal snap indicated the gun was not loaded.

“Shee-it,” Brock said, his snarl widening into a crazy-face laugh.

“I hate you,” Summer said, choking, trying to catch her breath. Brock laughed again, twirling the gun, his index finger in the trigger guard.

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“Ladies, our fun time is over for now. I’m already a teensybit late for my call to the police and to the dense Mr. DK. Y’all keep quiet now or we’ll have to enjoy our next social hour with a loaded gun.” *** “This is Bren Forrest at Global News Service. I need to speak to Chief of Detectives Hagan, please. It’s extremely urgent.”

“This is Detective Hagan’s assistant, Margaret, Ms. Forrest.

He’s en route to the office and should be here any minute. May I call his cell and give him a heads-up?”

“Yes, Margaret, of course, we’ve met. It’s a personal thing.

Cassandra Page has been in some kind of shooting incident in north Georgia. She’s in critical condition and they’re flying her to Piedmont Hospital and…”

“Oh wait, Ms. Forrest, Detective Hagan is walking in. Jimmy, pick up the desk phone. It’s Bren Forrest. Urgent.” *** The nurse Daryl referred to as nurse Ratched rushed into the break room at the hospital as soon as the medevac helicopter carrying Cassie took off and headed south to Atlanta. She poured coffee into a plastic cup and opened her smart phone to Twitter.

“A News Alert” she wrote, mimicking the TV news anchors she often watched, sometimes with envy of their clothes, hair and Hollywood-length eyelashes.

“TV star C. Page shot in N.GA forest. Critical. Chopper to ATL.#Cassie.”

There. That ought to get me a whole bunch more Twitter followers. I need to get the name and stuff on that other TV woman, the DOA. She’s probably already in the cooler. I’ll post that too.

Damn, what a night. Haven’t seen this much action in this out-ofthe-way hospital since that troop of Boy Scouts pitched their tents over several nests of fire ants.

257

53 ATLANTA “Where do you keep your bourbon?” Rudy asked, as soon as they walked into Angie’s apartment in Atlanta.

“My bourbon, as you put it, is in the fridge. It’s the kind you like, Rudy.”

“The fridge? You mean the refrigerator? The bourbon? What, do you keep the salt and pepper in there too? How about your cans of soup, your paper towels maybe?”

Rudy knew he probably should not make Angie angry at that point so he smiled and said, “Honey, you are too sweet to me.

Why not put great bourbon in the fridge? It’s a clever idea.” Then, he couldn’t help himself by shutting up.

“It’ll make it really convenient when I go to find my toothbrush. Where, in the dryer?”

Angie stayed calm. “Maybe I’ll have some bourbon with you, Rudy, wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Sure, babe. Fix us each a hefty one on the rocks, a double.

Terrific. I have a few calls to make out on the balcony where it won’t bother you.”

“On the way, Rudy, Savannah Ninety-nine, on the rocks coming up.”

“Eighty-eight. Savannah Eighty-eight. Not ninety-nine.

Eighty-eight. Just saying.”

“Oh. Would you prefer ninety-nine, Rudy? I mean I could run to the liquor store…”

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“There is no ninety-nine. Eighty-eight. Period. Cheers, Angie.”

How much longer will I have to put up with Angie? Is she getting dumber or what? I have to break out of this let’s-play-house garbage and get rid of her. Maybe she can help me get some cash first. Whew. This is going to be a long couple of nights.

Rudy took his drink to the balcony and punched in Brock’s cell.

“Are you about to phone the TV people and the cops again, Brock? Have you made any progress at all?”

Rudy was trying to give Brock a pep talk, but Brock seemed unfocused, confused.

“You try it, Rudy,” Brock said, his voice getting higher and strained. “Where’s all your big talk now? These TV people are nuts. They threaten to kill us all if Nikki Z is hurt and to put us in prison forever if we let her go…”

“That doesn’t sound right, Brock. Have you been chug-alugging liquid courage before you call them with your demands?”

“Of course not. And look who’s talking.”

“Brock, this is it. Your foundation needs cash. Me, too. Tell the cops and the TV people we will drop all our ransom demands, the fur coat burning, the pro-animal TV commercials, all of it, except for the cash. If they sound interested, do something dramatic and tell them it’s your final offer. A million and Nikki goes home a hero and we walk away, no harm, no foul.”

“Do you think that would work, Rudy?”

No, you git, but it could be bargained down to half or a third of that. I’ll get my share and your share and Angie’s, too.

“Not sure, but give it a try. Oh, and Brock, could you spare some cash to get me over some attorney’s fees right now? You can get it back from my share of the settlement. Piece of cake.”

“I don’t know, Rudy,” Brock said, “what with your murder charge and all.”

“Hey, go knock ’em dead in your ransom call, eh Brock? It’s all good. All good.”

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*** “Bren, what the hell happened up there?” Jimmy was standing at the corner of his desk, trying to pace around, even though the short cord on the desk phone tethered him in place. He was sweating, straining to hear what Bren Forrest was saying through her angst-ridden sniffles and throat-clearing.

“As I said, there was gunfire in the woods up there,” Bren said. “All I know is Cassie is in critical condition and a medevac helicopter is flying her to Piedmont Hospital. Should be there in a few minutes. Dr. Tomé, she’s…you know of her, of course, she’s a great surgeon, she’s in charge on this, probably already at the hospital.”

“I’m going right now,” Jimmy said. “Are you in touch with Daryl and RoAnn?” “Yes, Daryl’s staying up there for our coverage. But RoAnn, oh Jimmy, RoAnn was killed in the shootout,” Bren sobbed. “I don’t know how or why or, or anything, so go see about Cassie, please, Jimmy, and stay in touch. I have to be here a little longer to coordinate all this, but I’ll get to the hospital soon as I can. ” As Bren hung up, Jimmy slammed down the phone and kicked his office chair across the room. “Dammit, M, he shouted.

“How’d this happen?”

He walked over and put his arms around Margaret, his shoulders slumped and shaking. They both cried softly for a few seconds, then Jimmy pulled away.

“I should have gone up there with Cassie, M. She asked me to and was hurt that I wouldn’t. I could have protected her…”

He wiped away more tears, coughed and swallowed, then stood straight up, military-style.

“I’m going to Piedmont.” Jimmy said, clenching and unclenching. “Please get me a squad car and a uniform driver.

Contact that county hospital up north and see what you can find out about this whole mess. Contact the sheriff up there too, please. And, M, send two uniformed officers to Piedmont. Tell them to find out exactly where Cassie is and stay as close as they can to her ‘till I get there.”

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Jimmy phoned Margaret a few minutes later from the car.

“M, I forgot to call Chief Lutz with a heads-up on this whole thing. Could you…”

“It’s taken care of, Jimmy,” she said. “And I’m on the phone with a sheriff ’s deputy up north. He’s reluctant to give me much information. I get the impression people up there know who Cassie is and the social media is on fire.”

“If anybody can get their cooperation,” Jimmy said, “it’s you, M.” He meant it.

Jimmy dreaded the next call, but he was almost at the hospital so it would be brief.

The Channel 4 news director, DK Jack, saw Jimmy’s name on his cell phone and grabbed it.

“Jimmy, how bad is it up there? What the hell is this all about?

Are RoAnn and Cassie all right? What’s…”

“You cannot quote me, DK, but off the record, I’m hearing RoAnn and Cassie were both shot in some sort of backwoods confrontation. I know Cassie is critically wounded and being flown here now. But RoAnn, DK, may not have survived.” He paused and waited for DK to say something.

“DK, did you read me? Not official, but third-hand, RoAnn was shot, too, and died at the scene or on the way to the county hospital there. I’m sorry, DK, that’s all I know. And you obviously won’t report this on my say-so. I mean it.”

“Jimmy, I won’t involve you. And thanks for the call.” Jimmy could hear the hurt and the sniffing back of tears. “I’m sending reporters up there right away. I don’t know what else to do. I mean, all this, this awful situation, all this over a news story about bear poaching? Bear hunting? And some stupid kidnapping of Nikki Z?” DK was almost shouting.

“I know, DK. I know. I’m rolling into Piedmont now. Fingers crossed, my friend, and lucky charms and lighted candles and prayers and whatever else people can do.”

“Yeah, all that, Jimmy. All that.” ***

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“I know you’re tough as a tank, Ranger Mabry, but lie down on the bed. I need a good look at your ear, or what’s left of it.”

The young doctor could see the EMTs had stopped the bleeding on the way to the hospital. Verne Mabry’s wound was the least serious of the four people who were shot.

“Is my ear in one piece, Doc?” the ranger asked with a tight grin. “There wasn’t much pain at first, but it’s throbbing now.

Sure could use an aspirin or three.”

“You bet. The nurse is right here with a needle full. The sheriff ’s men want a word with you, soon as possible. Are you up for that? And your boss is due here. Is this a good time?”

The ranger nodded. “Yeah, but first, about my ear?”

“A bullet apparently grazed your head and took a sliver off the top of your ear,” the doctor said. “The head wound will heal nicely. And plastic surgery should fix the ear so no one will notice. Your pain will ease within a few minutes. Can you talk with the people out there now?”

“Send ’em in, Doc. I suspect I’m the least of their problems.”

As the questions poured out of the officials crowded into the room with the ranger, Verne realized his version of events in the woods might be their most reliable source of what happened. He was tired and worried about his wounded ear. He minimized the earlier dust-up with RoAnn over the gun she was carrying, even though she later fired it at the buzzards and hit the ranger in her panic.

Why blame her? It was an accident and she cannot defend herself in death.

“I’m telling you what I know, gentlemen and you all know me. I suggest you also talk with Earl Shanklin, the guy who I think shot Miss Cassie and Miss RoAnn. I presume Earl is still alive and will survive? I guess I must have winged him. He also may know something about those dead bears that no doubt were killed by poachers.”

Daryl stood halfway down the hall watching the gaggle of lawmen crowd into Ranger Mabry’s hospital room. He figured they would be questioning him too, maybe soon.

Oh man, they’re gonna want my video from the woods, the medevac action, all of it. I better feed the raw video to Atlanta right 262

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now. I’ll dub it to the laptop computer, too. Then, if they demand the video card from the camera, they can have it and we’re still OK. Daryl guessed right. Within half an hour, a man with a sheriff ’s department badge on his sport coat lapel approached him in a waiting room near the front door of the hospital as he was on the phone with GNS. “Mr. Evans? Daryl Evans?” Daryl raised a finger to indicate he’d be right with the man.

“I’m Detective Gunderson with the sheriff ’s department here. May we ask you a few questions, Mr. Evans?”

“Of course. How can I help?” Daryl asked. “But first, y’all were in Ranger Mabry’s room. How’s he doing?”

“The doc said he will fully recover,” said the detective. “But how about you, Mr. Evans? We are told you were the only person at the scene of the shooting who wasn’t shot when it all went down. Congratulations. How did you manage that?”

“Hell, I don’t know. When the shooting started, I dropped to the ground, dug in a little. It was over fast. I heard the ranger yelling and that motherf…that bastard who came out of the woods with a rifle, he was shooting and screaming. RoAnn went down and Cassie, too. I…” “Mr. Evans, were you running away or hiding or what?” The detective asked.

“None of that. On the ground, I was still recording video as best I could.”

“Did you shoot at the man with the rifle?”

“No, I didn’t have a gun” An FBI agent entered the room, just arrived from the bureau’s field office in Gainesville.

“Gentlemen, I have only one question for Mr. Evans at this time. Young man,” he said, “we understand this gun battle took place in a clearing where some dead bears were found. They were slaughtered a day or two earlier, it seems. Do you personally know anything about that?”

Daryl said nothing at first. He stared at the FBI agent, looked down at the video camera at his feet and slowly his eyes swept the clutch of men watching him, looking for a tell, a tick, a tear. Then he stood motionless, staring.

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“A wonderful woman, my friend and workmate, Cassandra Page, is fighting for her life right now. Some of you may know her; most of you probably have heard of her, seen her awardwinning documentaries on crime and violence in this country, in this state. Another of my colleagues is dead, RoAnn Gantry, shot and killed by some twisted bastard for no reason. And one of your own, Ranger Verne Mabry, was shot and wounded, as you know.

“Whatever this bear business is about, you’ll excuse me if I don’t get too excited over it right now. I’ll be at the Hotel Twelve in town if you need me. And one more thing. Get ready for more people like me showing up here real soon. People with TV cameras and microwave gear, vans full of electronic gadgets to help them tell the story of what happened here. Excuse me. I have a job to do and a loved one to pray for.”

“Stay where you are, Mr. Evans,” the FBI agent said. “We’re not quite finished. Before you leave, we need the video card from your camera. Now, please.”

Daryl shrugged. “What for? It’s private property, owned by my company, Global News Network.”

“Come on, Mr. Evans, don’t play dumb with us. You know better. And wasting the FBI’s time will not improve your relationship with us. Give me the video card.”

“And if I refuse?” Daryl asked.

“Then we’ll pry it from your cold, dead hands, to coin a phrase.”

264

54 NORTH GEORGIA MOUNTAINS The Waffle House didn’t feel right to Gary as he parked and entered.

“Where’s everybody? Am I getting the silent treatment here?”

Gary asked. “What’s the joke? It’s not my birthday or anything.”

Roz rushed over and put her hand over Gary’s on the counter.

“Gary, hon, we’re all concerned about the shooting out there, not far from your place. The cops haven’t said much official, but it’s all over Twitter that several people were shot in a gunfight in the woods a couple of hours ago, maybe longer.”

Gary held on to the counter, steadying himself from the impact of what Roz said. His head was pounding as he mentally raced through the day, the nosy Atlanta people, how he told Rudy to get out and get as far away as possible. And Gary recalled telling Earl to keep an eye on the ranger and the busybody TV crew when they went into the woods.

“What else are they saying, Roz, about who was shot? Is it on TV? Cause it could be a big nothing. Twitter is pretty much trash talking.” “l don’t know, Gary, haven’t had the TV on…”

“Please turn it on now, Roz, real quiet like. Put it on one of the Atlanta stations.”

The picture on the TV came up a few seconds before the sound. A bouncy thirty-something brown-haired woman was talking in front of a weather map of the eastern half of the United States. Her TV smile was the size of Lake Erie.

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“And with that fabulous forecast for the next few days, let’s go back to Jeremy James in our Atlanta newsroom. JJ.” Mr. James was not smiling as he tried to ease his way from the plucky weather woman to the top story of the moment, “An apparent deadly gun battle in the North Georgia Mountains.”

Gary was stone still, watching the TV. The main dining area inside the Waffle House grew quieter as the audio and video of the TV report rippled through the room. Less than two minutes later, Gary threw Roz a half-hearted wave and left the restaurant.

He sat in his truck for a couple of minutes, digesting what he heard and saw on TV and thinking about his next move. He called Earl’s cell phone. No answer.

That doesn’t mean much with Earl. Smart phone my ass. He spends most of his spare time playing video games on that thing.

Stupid stuff, dumb games like, what was it? Cheese Farts in Paradise, something like that.

I have to find out whether Earl was involved. The bastards on TV never mentioned him. The sketchy report talked about at least one dead female and three other persons injured in a gunfight.

Christ. That’s four. Maybe that means Earl was not close, hiding back in the trees, or something. I hope he didn’t panic and do any of the shooting. I mean, why would he? I need to talk with Earl before anyone else does. Maybe he’s at home. Or the hospital. Head home first.

A few minutes later, Gary’s cell phone rang. He couldn’t make out the caller ID. Be Earl, be Earl, be Earl. “Hey, Earl? Earl?”

After a pause, a woman’s voice said, “This is the Sheriff ’s Department with an urgent call for Mr. Gary Shanklin. Is this Mr. Shanklin?”

“Yes, yes it is. Do you know where my brother Earl is right now? Is he…”

“Sir, the detective here wants a word with ya. Hang on please.”

“Mr. Shanklin, this is…”

“I know I know I know, please tell me, is Earl with you and is he all right or what?”

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“Your brother’s wound is not life-threatening and we need to…”

“His wound? Not life threatening? What happened to him?

Where is he? Let me talk to him. Put him on the phone.”

“He is being treated at County Hospital. If you come here now you can see him. Officially he’s in custody as a participant in a confrontation. Weapons were fired and injuries resulted, therefore we’ll want to talk with you, too. Is that clear Mr. Shanklin?”

“Yeah, Jesus, it’s clear. I’m on my way. Can you put Earl on the phone now, while I’m driving?”

“That won’t be possible,” the detective said. “We’re talking with him now, but you can see him when you get here.” *** “Earl, can I call you Earl, young man? I have a son a little younger than you.” The Sheriff ’s Department detective was sitting in the only chair in Earl’s hospital room. He had turned it around and was straddling the back, hoping the casual appearance might relax Earl a bit.

“We need your help for a few minutes, son, then you can rest and start to get well. You told the doctor you live with your older brother, Gary is it?”

Earl nodded.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you. Do you live with Gary?”

“Yeah, I have a room behind his store. Can’t miss it. A big sign, Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures. I work there.”

“Do you take tourists into the forest or maybe help hunters or fishermen find the right places, like that?”

“Yeah, I guess. If Gary’s too busy I help out.”

Earl moved his arm and a sharp pain shot through his wounded shoulder.

“Oh, man, that hurts,” he winced. “Damn, can I get more pain medicine?”

“We will tell the nurse,” the detective said, nodding to the uniformed deputy at the door, then shaking his head slightly, indicating no medicine yet.

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“Now, Earl, what were you doing out there in the woods with those Atlanta people? Guiding them, maybe, or helping Ranger Mabry?”

“Uh, not really, I…” “Did you have a weapon with you, son?”

“Yeah, but I usually carry a gun when I’m in the woods, ya’ know, ‘cause ya’ never know, ya’ know?”

“Never know what, Earl? Thinking a momma bear might come along? A fox maybe? Or some poachers?”

“Hey, man, I really need a pain shot. This shoulder is on fire.”

“I’m sure the nurse will be right along. You were saying why you were in the woods, but you were not with those folks from Atlanta.”

“Yeah, no, I mean I was out there but not with them. Gary said I should keep track of them, stay out of their way. And to let him know if they found anything, uh, not good. That’s all.”

“Was Gary specific? Worried about anything?”

“Maybe the bear carcasses,” Earl said. “He didn’t want them to see that stuff.”

“Why not?”

“I guess ‘cause we left ’em there. But we picked up the good parts the other day and Gary sold ’em.” Earl raised his voice. “I don’t know, man, and I’m not talking to you any more until you get that nurse with the painkillers.”

“Fine.”

The detective pushed the green call button attached to Earl’s hospital bed. “Yes, you need something?” a nurse asked.

The detective told her Earl was in pain and needed help right away.

“Earl, your pain relief is on the way, I promise. Tell us, why did you fire your rifle at those people? Who were you aiming at, Earl?”

“No, ain’t right. They fired first. Honest. A woman fired toward me, a couple of shots, I think, and I fired back. And then a man, the ranger, I think, shot at me and hit me.”

Earl was crying, in anger and pain.

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“I didn’t hardly aim, wasn’t tryin’ to hurt anybody. But a guy’s got a right to defend hisself, don’t he? Who else got shot, mister?

Am I the only one? Why me?”

The nurse walked into the room and administered the pain medicine for Earl. After she left, the detective answered Earl’s question.

“No, Earl, you weren’t the only one shot. Three other people were too. And we think you shot two of them.” *** Gary went charging through the front door at County Hospital like a fullback under Friday night-lights.

“Where’s my brother,” he shouted to the empty lobby. “Hello, somebody, anybody?” No response. He walked through the lobby to a reception window and looked both ways.

“Earl, hey Earl, where are you?”

A nurse slowly peeked out from the women’s lavatory. Seeing Gary’s agitation, she pulled her head back, took her cell phone from a pocket and punched in a four-number code. Up came an icon with a photo of the hospital building. A few seconds later, a slightly garbled recorded voice sounded from a small speaker on a phone next to the reception counter.

“Welcome to the County Hospital communications system.

Please listen carefully as our options have changed. For emergency, call 9-1-1. For hours of operation, press two…” The sixth option was, “To speak to customer service say ‘representative.’”

“REPRESENTATIVE.” Gary shouted into the phone. “R-EP-R-E…” He was interrupted by another voice on the phone, possibly a live human.

“Welcome to County Hospital, where we are pleased to serve you with health care you can count on. This is Becca. How may I help you?”

Gary tried to retrieve his composure, explaining to the real or recorded voice that he wanted to see his brother who was a patient in the hospital.

“Date of birth?”

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“Mine or his?”

“The patient’s date of birth.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Oh,” the voice said dejectedly.

“Is this a person? Please could I speak to a person?”

“This is Becca. Name, please?”

“Me or my brother?”

“The patient, please.”

Six questions later, Becca told Gary to take the hallway on the right to a nurses’ station and to wait for assistance. As he arrived, a woman wearing jeans and a beige cardigan sweater came out of a side door a few steps in front of him. She was about five-eight with short brown hair and sleepy green eyes. The name Becca was clipped to the left breast pocket of her sweater.

“Becca?” Gary asked, staring at her. “Are you the Becca I was talking with back in the lobby or are you a recording or what?

“I’m real sir. You are here to see a patient?”

Gary nodded.

“The patient is your brother? Earl Shanklin?”

“Yes, as I told you, or the recording, before.”

Becca told Gary to wait there and she pressed a call button, which buzzed in Earl’s room.

Moments later two sheriff ’s deputies walked into the nurses’ station, one a plainclothes detective, the other a uniformed deputy.

“We’re cuffing you and frisking you so stand there and be quiet, Mr. Shanklin. It is Gary Shanklin, right?” the detective asked.

“Yeah and why the hell are you cuffing me? I came here when I heard my brother Earl was here, shot. Where is he? I demand to see him.”

“Stay cool. You are about ten seconds from getting locked up unless you answer a few questions. Then, maybe you can see Earl.”

“Listen, you knuckle-dragging’ bastards, you got nothing on me.” Gary was shouting again. “And leave Earl alone. You know he’s a little off in the head sometimes. Keep your pig fingers off 270

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of him. Now take off these cuffs. And I want a lawyer. Lawyer, lawyer, lawyer.”

“Sorry, Gary,” the detective said. “We have more potential criminal counts against you than you have putrid hot dogs on that slimy grill of yours. Have a nice night, what’s left of the night, in one of our comfy Sleep-Number beds, I mean cots, at the county jail. You’ll be allowed a phone call from there. You can wake up one of your favorite attorneys tonight and tell him all about it. And we’ll see you at your sentencing hearing in a couple of months. Officer Ross, please escort our foul-mouthed friend to that dungeon-of-a-hellhole we call the county jail.”

“Will do, Detective,” the officer said, looking at Gary. “Maybe we’ll have Mr. Shanklin share a cell tonight with Gordo the Grunt Grantham. He was in a knife fight a few nights ago, but he probably hasn’t had time to get another shiv in the cell with him.”

“Yeah, probably not,” the detective said, watching the blood drain from Gary’s cheeks.

271

55 ATLANTA The parking lot at Channel 4 was almost deserted when Jimmy rolled in, braked hard and parked near the main gate. He made it from Piedmont Hospital in less than fifteen minutes. He hurried into the lobby of the station, waved at the security guard on duty and loped down a long hallway to the newsroom and DK’s office.

Through a large glass window he could see DK leaning into a desk with the recording equipment on it, capturing the words of Nikki Z’s kidnapper. Jimmy walked in and waved at DK. “DK, our PAP organization knows nothing about the death of your producer, RoAnn Gantry,” Brock was saying.

DK was not buying it.

I’d like to strangle that madman for what’s happened to RoAnn and to Cassie. None of this would be going on if this crazy freak and his PAP organization hadn’t kidnapped Nikki. Rotten bastards, all of ’em.

DK forced himself to be calm in talking with the kidnapper.

“Do you have anything new to report, Mr. Pap?” DK asked, wearily.

“Only to say how disappointed we are about how obtuse you are as we PAP members try to end this ordeal for everyone,” Brock said. “We can do it right now. Prepare a million dollars in non-sequential twenty-dollar bills and deliver them to a place of our choice. You’ll have your precious Nikki Z back on the spot.

Deal?”

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“Don’t be absurd, Pap,” DK said. “You’re playing your vicious little games, wanting to set fire to a fur coat and have us run a million TV spots supporting your tacky PAP committee. What is it PAP stands for again? Wait. I remember. People Are the Problem. How clever, how humane, how, oh I don’t know, how disgusting. You make me puke, PAP.” Brock was taken aback by the anger in DK’s voice, but he answered with a soft effort at a sophisticated, upper-class twit’s voice.

“I will not be spoken to like that. We were ready to reach out to you with a compromise. We would remove our demand to burn Nikki’s sable coat. A million dollars, period. And that would be it. But our generous offer is now off the table. It is late, gentlemen, and I will bid you adieu ‘till morrow and ring you then. Perhaps you will have come to your senses. Good evening.”

“Did he hang up?” Jimmy asked DK, who nodded.

“I think he was drinking, Jimmy. I’d like to kill him. Slowly.”

“That’s a good-news, bad-news thing, DK. It’s tricky. I’d like him to kill himself, but he’d probably screw that up too.”

Jimmy stood up and moved toward the door.

“You going to the hospital?”

“Yeah. It’s easier to get reliable information in person with my badge on than by phone. I can work from there. And the truth is, DK, I don’t know what else to do.” His voice thickened.

“All I can do is wait. I hate it that Cassie and I argued before she went up north. We left it in a chilly standoff, aloof, you know?

Now I can’t talk to her and apologize. I can’t blame anybody but me for this. And it was about work stuff, stupid stuff…”

“You want to talk about it?” DK interjected, trying to lower the pressure in Jimmy’s mind. “Who am I going to tell?”

If you only knew, DK. Atlanta PD’s chief of detectives leaking police intelligence and operations to the most prominent crime reporter in America? You’d be furious with Cassie and me.

“Maybe it’s nothing but a lovers’ quarrel, DK. We’ll get through it. And, as she gets well, we’ll work it out.”

“Cassie’s tough, Jimmy, like you. This will end well, my friend.”

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Jimmy walked out of the office and through the newsroom, looking straight ahead, trying to ignore TV monitors blaring the headlines. What DK said was racing through Jimmy’s head, “This will end well, my friend.”

To Jimmy it was more a prayer than a prediction. *** Dr. Tomé jumped out of her taxi and ran through the public waiting room to the Intensive Care Unit before Jimmy arrived at the hospital.

As always before surgery, she stood at the entrance to the operating room, absorbing the situation, asking questions of the staff, getting vital information, arranging for scans, moving deliberately but thinking fast.

“Ventilator?” she asked.

“Minimal settings doctor.”

“BP?” “Reasonable.”

“Heart rate? Arterial pressure?” And a dozen other rapid-fire questions.

The doctor walked around the bed, checking Cassie’s chest tube, making sure the catheter was on, confirming medications, forming conclusions. Her immediate diagnosis was that Cassie was shot twice, causing lung and esophageal injury. The bullets were through-and-through, close to the heart. Any closer and she would have died. Dr. Tomé ordered a CAT scan to confirm her diagnosis.

She was right. Cassie had suffered a transmediastinal injury.

The bullets entered her body on the left side and went out on the right, causing serious injury to her lung and her esophagus.

She was in critical condition. Dr. Tomé took a deep breath, then exhaled, relaxing her upper body. The diagnosis was a relief to her and good news to the others on the surgical team.

Still only in her thirties, Tomé already was known nationally as an outstanding thoracic surgeon with expertise in all things esophageal. Her specialty was minimally invasive surgery and 274

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she determined immediately that Cassie was a likely candidate.

She knew sometimes she must forego the small incision for a larger one, but hoped this was not one of those times.

The surgical team positioned Cassie on the table to give maximum access to the doctors and others who would spend the next seven or eight hours there, including the anesthesiologist and the nurse anesthetist, a circulating nurse, the scrub tech, her physician’s assistant, two clinical partners and other medical staffers who helped wherever they were needed during the procedure.

When Dr. Tomé walked in, scrubbed up and ready, conversation stopped. She nodded, smiled, and said, “Giddy-up.”

At the front entrance to Piedmont Hospital, Jimmy released his patrolman driver. He expected to be at the hospital for a while and could have a car return there in minutes.

At the reception desk in the waiting area, he showed his badge and asked directions to the nurses’ station nearest the Intensive Care Unit.

“Detective, I can only tell you what I’ve told the two officers over there,” the nurse said. “The doctors probably won’t have information for at least an hour. We will tell you what we can at that time. I gave the patient’s clothing and other personal effects to the officer holding that green plastic bag. It’s for safekeeping.

We can put her things in a closet after she is moved out of surgery back to the ICU or a regular room.”

“Thank you, nurse. I’ll wait in the small room down the hall.

Oh, do you know whether Cassie’s parents have been told about all this? They live in Texas.”

“My guess is the hospital in the mountains notified next of kin right away. I’ll check for you in a few minutes.”

“Thanks. One more thing. Can I charge up a cell phone here?” Jimmy asked the nurse. “It’s running on fumes.”

“On fumes, Detective? I don’t know about…”

“My little joke, nurse, Bly is it?” Jimmy asked, looking at her name tag. “N. Bly?” “My first name is Naomi, but my friends call me Nellie.”

“Great name, Nurse Bly,” Jimmy said.

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Cassie would love having a Nellie Bly namesake as one of her nurses. I remember her talking about Nellie Bly, who apparently pioneered in Cassie’s chosen profession of investigative reporting.

Nice coincidence. A good omen.

“Nellie, thanks,” Jimmy said with a slight smile.

“And, Detective, I want to say we’re all pulling for Cassie, um, I mean Ms. Page. We love her on TV.”

276

56 ATLANTA Nikki Z barely heard Brock’s end of his ransom call with DK. But she could tell the conversation made Brock more on edge, more unreasonable, more likely to do something calamitous.

Maybe he’ll go out in a blaze of gunfire, or any kind of fire, taking us all with him. The girls, Spring and Summer, and Angie seem to be more on my side than Brock’s now. And that makes him nuttier hour by hour. I need to stay clear-headed, even if I have to fake taking the pain pills. I have to convince Spring or Summer to leave the house when Brock’s away or asleep and bring in the police. But so far Brock has scared them to death.

Again yesterday he told Summer she and her sister would get at least life in prison for being part of a kidnapping. Said it’s federal law. They’re scared of their shadows by now. How can I gain their trust, make them see they would get huge credit if they led police to me and to crazy Brock? Then there’s Angie. She’s smart and she never liked Brock anyway. Find a way. It’s time.

Nikki decided to check her physical situation. She was lying on her back, her undamaged ankle and foot bound to one of the bedposts. She raised her neck and rotated it, hoping the faint crackling sounds meant she was loosening up, at least a bit. She tried to clear her head, her brain, addled by days of nauseating pain, interwoven with a few hours of shallow, tortured sleep. She moved her good leg slightly. No give but no pain. Then she tried, slowly, to move the injured ankle and the pain was lightningbolt intense. She gasped, pushing her face in the pillow to stifle 277

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a scream. The pain radiated up her leg halfway to her knee. She collapsed back on the bed and cried.

I may die right here if I don’t escape this place. I wonder if doctors can save my leg. And me.

Spring and Summer sat close to the TV, the audio low so Nikki could not hear.

They waited until Brock settled down after his latest failed phone call to the authorities and stomped off to his bedroom, cursing everybody in the hostage scheme except himself.

Earlier, Spring had heard a snippet on a small radio in the bathroom about a murder in the North Georgia mountains. The scratchy AM signal garbled the sound, something about “a TV producer shot to death.” Then came a bongo drum sound effect, fading under a voice proclaiming, “Now it’s time for traffic and weather together on the eights.”

Spring had turned off the radio and applied her nightly facial moisturizer.

Then the half-heard radio headline came back to her as she and Summer watched TV. The newsman, a forty-ish African-American in a bow tie, said the name JoAnn or Roseann or something like that, was a producer at Channel 4 in Atlanta. Then the female anchor on the screen, a pretty, black-eyed blonde, introduced a studio guest, a retired detective with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, to talk about the case.

“Detective, is there a connection between the sensational kidnapping of Nikki Z and this shooting spree in the woods we’re hearing about?”

“I have no idea, but when TV news people are in the news like these two cases, it’s of major interest and I’m sure my former colleagues on the force are looking for possible links, if any.”

The detective then deflected several “what if ” questions. The bow-tied anchorman man thanked the ex-cop and turned to the camera.

“If you have any information on these major felony cases, the shootout in the woods or the kidnapping of news anchor Nikki Z, call Crime Catchers…”

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*** Jimmy plopped onto a two-seater couch in a small room off the OR, which the nurse said was a place for the medical staff to talk privately with families of patients. He leaned back and closed his eyes, but he could feel his eyes flittering back and forth under his closed eyelids. He sat up, shook his head as if to push away that nervous image and opened his iPhone. He tapped on the icon for his ToDo app and made a list: -Check the lab for DNA results from that animal doctor’s medical bag. Find him.

-Tell techs to find the noise of peacocks on one of the ransom calls. Is Nikki hostage at the zoo?

-Persuade news media to re-ask for the public’s help in finding Rudy Decker, hot-button stuff, killer, fugitive, push it hard.

-Contact sheriff ’s office up there for update on the shooting investigation.

-Ask Bren to help Cassie’s parents get to Atlanta.

-Line up a grief counselor for...

Jimmy stopped, then hit the delete key on that note.

He sent a text to Margaret at their office, asking her to start on the list. And he added a line, “Cassie in surgery, still critical.

No more info yet. Thx, J.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and scratched the beginnings of the next day’s stubble on his cheeks and chin. He leaned back again, resting his neck on the back of the leather couch. What seemed like five seconds later – it was about fortyfive minutes – nurse Bly touched him gently on the shoulder.

“Detective Hagan, a doctor is here to see you about Ms. Page.”

Jimmy sat upright. “Yes, Doctor, how is she? What can you tell me? Is the surgery over, is she all right? What happens…?”

“Take it easy, Detective. Let me introduce myself. I’m Dr. Jacob Mills, one of the gray hairs around here. Dr. Tomé is a protégé of mine and I am scrubbed in as an assistant and observer. I’ve done hundreds of surgeries similar to what they’re doing with Ms. Page and I have complete confidence in Dr. Tomé. Ms. Page has fine people working to save her and praying for her.”

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“Thank you, Doctor. As a cop, I’ve seen it all when it comes to violence, shootings, you know. So please tell me everything, the truth. Is she going to make it?”

“It’s way too early in the process to be certain, but early on it’s going well. Dr. Tomé is an expert at these procedures. Ms. Page remains in critical condition right now but she is stable. We’ll try to keep you updated at least every two hours. May I suggest you try to get some sleep?”

Jimmy shook Dr. Mills’ hand and paused to watch him walk briskly down the hall.

Funny, the doc seems eager and excited to get back to the operating room. I don’t guess I’ve ever truly saved someone’s life.

At least not that I know of. Helped people, of course. Part of the job description. But to save someone from almost certain death? I don’t know. Cassie is near death. Thank god for these people.

Jimmy cleared his throat, wiped his eyes and sat down on the edge of the couch armrest. Eyes closed, he made the sign of the cross on his chest.

When was the last time I did that?

His cell phone sounded.

“Right after I heard your message, Jimmy,” said Margaret from her office, “ a call came from the state lab. Nikki Z’s DNA was on material in that veterinarian’s medical bag. His DNA was there, too.”

“Great, M. That makes finding the warthog vet, Dr. Q something, a top priority. He was in contact with Nikki Z recently.

Let’s pick him up now. Let me know when he’s in custody. Oh, the uniform cop who talked with Dr. Q on the street would know him best. I think I have the name right. It’s Walsh, Ed Walsh.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass it along. One more thing, Jimmy, the lab guy who did the DNA said he was keeping the traces of warthog DNA he also found in the vet’s bag, in case you needed that down the road.”

“That’s nice, M, but I don’t see how…”

“He was real upset about Cassie getting shot. Said all the people at the crime lab admire Cassie so much for her crimefighting work on the news. He said they’ll be praying for her and send their blessings.”

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“How could they know so fast, M, and in such detail? It’s startling.”

“Everybody knows, Jimmy. With Twitter and Facebook and all that, including cable news. Everybody knows and has an opinion. It’s nuts.”

281

57 ATLANTA Rudy finished his jumbo bourbon about the time he finished his phone call to Brock. Angie watched from the kitchen as Rudy rattled the glass on the balcony railing. “Rudy, dear, does that mean you would like another cocktail?”

“Yes, Angie dear,” Rudy replied, the emphasis being his version of sweet sarcasm. Angie carried the bottle to the coffee table, plunked an ice cube into the glass, added powder from two capsules of a sleep aid and poured until the booze was rim high.

“Won’t you have one too, Angie?” Rudy asked. “This stuff is primo.”

“Oh, no thanks, hon, not right now. I prefer my drink with nothing else in it. I like good whiskey all by itself. No ice” she said, testing Rudy’s sobriety factor.

He’s almost there. Another fist-sized drink and he’ll be on his way to a memorable evening.

“Rudy, sweetie, come in off the balcony and sit on this comfy easy chair.” Angie pulled up a smaller chair and sat facing Rudy across a coffee table. “Now tell me, how’s it going with the Nikki Z project? Brock’s not doing well. He lurches through the house where we have Nikki, drinking and yelling and waving his gun around. He threatens Spring and Summer and yells at me constantly.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Angie.” His speech was slowing. “I maybe oughta pay a visit to that place. Scare the crap out of Brock. What 282

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a wimp he is, ya know, Ange? What a weenie. What a little girl.

Not a girl, but a girly guy…”

Rudy drained his drink, dribbling some of it on his shirt.

He sat back and closed his eyes, mumbling to Angie in a halting jumble. He dozed, coughed a couple of times, his eyes fighting a losing battle to stay open.

“Take it easy, Rudy, relax. It’ll work out. You could dump Brock any time you want. We don’t need him. Why should we split the ransom with him? What’s he done to deserve it? Nothing.”

As Angie expected, Rudy didn’t answer.

Maybe it’s better this way. Before morning, his life will change forever, all for the bad, I hope. Apparently my earlier idea of a roll in the hay is out of the question. But screwing with Rudy’s dismal future is better.

“Tell you what, Rudy,” Angie said, with a practiced lilt in her voice. “I’m getting hungry.”

“Me too, Angie. Letch go for a pizza. No, let ’em come to ush. Pizza with steak on it. Oh, man, soundin’ outshandin’. Pizza steak and eggs. No, wait. Pizza and…uh…pizza, and bourbon.

Yeah, and bar-be-cow. I mean Q, babby Q.. Pizza and eggs to go, then, carry on, carry out, whatever…and while we’re waiting, any more of that eighty-what its? It’s one schmooth berrrr-boooone.”

Angie put another double shot of bourbon into his drink.

She waited twenty minutes, then pretended to order a pizza, in case Rudy should wake up, or come to. She sat and watched him, while pondering details of what she hoped would be happening before too long.

I thought I loved him, I did, but maybe I was in love with the idea of a love affair. Lord knows I don’t have much of that in my mediocre life. Maybe my taste in men is pathetic. Sitting here, watching Rudy, this murderer, with his bright-white teeth, always getting the girls with his smile and his mile-a-minute lies, his harem of hot women on his arm or in his flashy car or, so he says, in his bed. I don’t get it. How can he flip from Prince Charming to this creepy kidnapper, this smarmy mess passed out in my condo? And what will happen to me?

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Angie stood and shuddered a little, shaking off the hurt. She picked up Rudy’s roller tote in the corner and unzipped both pockets. A wallet held a wad of twenties and some lottery scratchoff tickets. After shoving aside two pair of men’s underwear, a shaver and other stuff, she found a forty-eight gigabyte thumb drive, an iPad, maybe two years old and a tissue wrapped around something else deeper in the large pocket.

“Oh, my,” she said.

Inside the crumpled Kleenex were the earrings Rudy stole from her. She cried, furious that he cared so little about her he would steal a personal treasure. She emptied Rudy’s tote on the carpet, shaking it to make sure nothing else of interest was inside.

She put her earrings and the packet of twenty-dollar bills into a small purse and hid it under the guest bed mattress. She left his luggage empty on the floor and leaned over the couch, her face an inch from his. He was out, still as a pillar of salt. She felt for a pulse, his wrist and his neck, then sat and stared at him. Her cheeks were turning a light pink, then becoming a beatific smile.

Rudy, you stupid man, there was a chance for us to have a great life together and you blew it. Now comes the hard part for you, thanks to me. I can do it too. I have to stay strong. Convince the cops you forced me to bring you here. You threatened me, Rudy.

And you’re about to pay for it.

Angie eased open the apartment door, stepped out and closed it behind her. She walked two blocks south to another condo building, then made a call from the burner phone.

“9-1-1. What is the address of your emergency?” *** Jimmy’s phone sounded at the nurses’ station near the operating room. The nurse answered it, then handed it to him.

“The guy says it’s urgent.”

“Detective Hagan, this is 9-1-1 supervisor Cameron. We have a caller who insists on speaking to you. She claims she can take police to the man wanted for kidnapping the TV news anchor,

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Nikki Z. She says the same guy, she gave his name as Decker, is wanted for a murder in Florida. What’s your…”

“Did you say the guy’s name is Decker?”

“That’s what she says, Detective.”

“Bizarre,” Jimmy said, his pulse rising. “Do you have a name and address?”

“No name, working on the location. Says she’ll only speak to you, sir.”

“Wait thirty seconds, then patch her in to this line. Can you record the call?”

“Detective, we record everything. Wait one.”

Jimmy called Margaret.

“M, Jimmy here. I need your help. 9-1-1 has an urgent call coming to me. Have them patch it to you as well. And record it if you can.”

“If I can?” Margaret asked sarcastically. “Jimmy, I can get you Air Force One if you ask nicely.” *** “Caller, Detective Hagan is on the line now. Detective?”

“Hello, ma’am, how can I help you? And please tell me your name.”

“No names, Detective. Please listen. I know the man who killed that girl in Florida and organized the kidnapping of Nikki Z.” “Are you making this up, lady? This Decker guy did both these crimes, by himself?”

“He wasn’t alone in the kidnaping. There were at least three other people. But Rudy Decker was the boss of the whole thing.”

“And what about you, how are you involved?”

“I helped Rudy and others kidnap her. Against my will. I know where she is being held hostage. I know she is injured and needs medical help. I know…”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Jimmy said. “How do I know this is not a hoax? We’ve seen a ton of ’em on the kidnapping…”

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“Detective Hagan, did you, the police, know Rudy Decker was hiding in the North Georgia mountains for a while?”

Jimmy froze for a moment.

Decker, the killer, in the mountains? Cassie and RoAnn up there? Connection? How in the...?

Angie pressed to make her case for credibility. “He made me meet with him at a Cracker Barrel on the highway and drive him back here. He’s in Atlanta now. Would I know all this if it’s a hoax?”

“You have to give me more than your little travelogue here.

Where is he now?”

“Another good try, Detective, but you get nothing from me until I get some immunity from prosecution. Understand, sir, I didn’t kill anybody or kidnap anybody. At least not violently. Can we make a deal? You give me…”

“Ma’am, don’t you know kidnapping is a federal offense?

Hiding a fugitive is another twenty years. We will find you and Decker, too. Count on it. Oh, and if Miss Nikki has serious injuries while you and Decker are holding her hostage. You get the point. Your grandchildren won’t live long enough to see you get out of prison and neither will you.”

Angie said nothing for about twenty seconds.

“Ma’am, ma’am? Final warning,” Jimmy said. “If you don’t make the smart choice and help us save Nikki and find the killer of that woman in Florida and tell us what you know about all this, the rest of your life will be hell. Tick-tock, ma’am, tickdamn-tock.”

Jimmy could hear Angie sniffling, probably tearing up.

“I get it. This Decker creep roped you into the kidnapping.

He promised the moon, love, money, excitement, a great life.

How am I doing? Then he changed, right? You learned he killed that lady in Naples and you hated that. If he was a killer there, what might he do to you? You’ve seen the pattern. Could’ve been your blood on that knife.”

“It makes me sick, Detective,” Angie said. “I want Rudy to pay, to suffer the way he’s hurt other people. And I don’t want him to hurt me anymore. Can you help me, Detective? Please?”

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“Ma’am, we’re going to be understanding,” Jimmy said. “No promises, but if you cooperate fully, including testifying in court, I’ll do my best to get the District Attorney to ditch the death penalty. Maybe we can do more to convince her, the DA, to go easy on you because you were a huge help to us. That is if you turn out to be crucial as we go along. But for now, that’s it. What’ll it be?”

“How do I know that will happen, Detective? Will you put it in writing?”

“My word is good. Your options are few. And getting fewer.”

“One last thing,” Angie said, “promise me you won’t parade me in and out of police buildings and courthouses in public while the media goes crazy. Because whatever you say about emphasizing how much help I’m being won’t mean anything after the TV news plasters my picture all over the country. I don’t know what to do.”

“Ma’am, you know the right thing to do or you wouldn’t have called at all.”

“Tell me, Detective, is getting revenge, hoping Rudy Decker burns in hell, is that included in doing the right thing?”

Jimmy was silent, knowing she was asking herself that question.

“I think I need a little time to clear my head,” Angie said. “I’ll call you in fifteen minutes, I promise.”

“No, please don’t hang up, ma’am. We can talk more and clarify a few things.”

“I said fifteen minutes, Detective. I need to think. If you don’t hear from me, it means I don’t trust you. It also means you may not catch Decker. And that could mean bad news for Nikki Z too. Do you agree?”

“Yes, call my cell,” Jimmy said. He told her the number.

“Remember, if you don’t call back, we’ll find you soon anyway.

And the breaks I’ve offered you go out the window.”

Jimmy ended the call and shook his head.

This is our best chance to catch Decker and the other kidnappers.

I wonder, could Decker be this crazy guy we’ve been calling Mr. Pap, the jerk with all the demands for returning Nikki safely?

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He looked at his watch. Cassie’s surgery already had been underway for more than two hours. As he walked toward the nurse’s station, Nurse Bly pointed to the operating room.

“Detective, here comes Dr. Mills.” *** Margaret rose up from her desk in Jimmy’s office, stretched, and turned off the recorder. She looked at her notes from Jimmy’s conversation with the anonymous woman informant. She had already arranged for a SWAT team and a medical team. Next, she left a message for the police office she lovingly called The Nerd Division, the high-tech wizards, computer geeks, data hackers and other experts with such tools as voice and face recognition systems, mini robotics and other adult toys. Margaret called them Transformers sometimes too. They liked her nickname and often gave priority attention to Margaret’s requests. She hoped her techno-pals could find a voice match in the database with the woman who called saying she could lead police to Rudy Decker.

Margaret’s next call was to Police Captain Dory Thirsk, the key aide and advisor to Police Chief Lutz and reigning brainiac at the Atlanta PD. “Hi, Dory, it’s Margaret in Detective Hagan’s office. Sorry to bother you at this hour, but you and the chief will want in on this.”

“Margaret, hi. I hope you’re calling to report the end of world hunger. Am I close?”

“No, better than that. Jimmy has a source that says she will take him to the guy who pulled off the kidnapping of Nikki Z. She says the same guy murdered a woman in Naples, Florida.”

“Are you serious, Margaret? My boss is sweating bullets, probably blanks, over the Nikki Z abduction, getting serious heat from City Hall and big business.”

“I know. Jimmy is hearing rumblings of unrest in the PD building, too. This is not a done deal, but it’s close. We should know before dawn whether it’s legit or a crackpot.”

“What’s the catch, Margaret? Must be a catch.”

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“In a nutshell, the woman, the snitch, wants immunity for her role in the kidnaping and all the related felonies involved.

Jimmy ditched that idea, but said he’d try to keep her off death row and would push for leniency on some lesser charges. But he didn’t guarantee anything. What do you think Chief Lutz might say to that, Dory?”

“Privately, he’d be thrilled to get the kidnapping story out of his jurisdiction and onto the District Attorney’s desk. After that he won’t care whether she gets the death penalty or has a bridge named after her. Publicly, he’d praise his cops, but also take as much credit as he could for leading the investigation. Sound about right to you?”

“Yes, but I have an idea, Dory. If we get Nikki Z back safe and unharmed, Chief Lutz could convince the city fathers to throw a parade for Nikki Z down Peachtree Street. And the chief could sit up there on the float with Nikki. What do you think?”

Margaret said, chuckling. “I’ll keep you posted, Dory. Thanks for your help.” *** “Doctor Mills, how’s Cassie doing?” Jimmy asked. “Will she recover?”

“We’re making progress, Detective, but it’s slow going. She has serious trauma to one lung and her esophagus. Dr. Tomé is working toward using a minimally invasive approach if at all possible. She is one of the best surgeons you could possibly have in a case like this. Miss Page remains in critical condition.

It’s hard to say exactly how she’s doing. She is stable and that’s positive.”

“Do you have any idea how much longer it will be?” Jimmy asked. “The surgery, I mean.”

“We estimated going in it would be four to eight hours, but that includes all the time in the OR, not the actual operating time. At the end, I or one of the other doctors will come out and let you know. Then, about an hour after that, Dr. Tomé will be able to talk with you at length.”

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Jimmy thanked Doctor Mills, then leaned on the counter at the nurse’s station. “If I’m bothering you,” he said to nurse Nellie, “let me know. I haven’t spent much time in hospitals lately.”

“No, you’re fine, Detective. Happy to have you here. I know how stressful it can be waiting for a loved one to get through surgery. Anything you need, let me know.”

“I saw a vending machine down one of the halls. This building is easy to get lost in, by the way.”

Nellie laughed. “What is tempting you in the vending machine?”

“Some coffee for now. Can I bring you a cup?”

“Come over here, Detective. Behind this copy machine we have one of those Keurig devices. Supposed to be for medical staff only, but at this hour nobody will care if you help yourself.

And it’s way better than the tar water in the vending box which will make you a patient in the hospital if you’re not careful.”

They laughed quietly and did a Styrofoam cup toast. “Cheers,” Jimmy said. The coffee burned his tongue on his first sip. His cell phone ring prevented a second try.

“Detective Hagan here.”

“This is the person with the information you want. I have a question.”

“I hope you have more for me than a question. Are you with me or against me?”

“With you, but, listen for a moment, please.” Jimmy was silent.

“If you can keep my name and stuff a secret, totally out of the media, completely, until the last possible time, you know, maybe like I’m a secret source or something, what do you call that?”

“A C.I. is short for confidential informant. You give us information, and if it’s valuable, we don’t forget. Nobody will know you’re working with the cops. Anything else?”

“You promise? Not my name, not my face, nothing?”

“Look, lady, you’re facing major felony charges. When you go to lockup and get into the system, your name will become known. Face? I don’t know, but these days, if anybody has ever taken your picture since the day you came into this world, it 290

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will surface somewhere. The only thing I can promise is, if you cooperate, you won’t show up on a wanted poster. Why? Because you won’t be wanted anymore. Now, let’s go. In or out?”

Jimmy looked up and saw Nurse Nellie smiling faintly, giving him a modest thumbs-up gesture. He grinned at her, then took another sip of his coffee. It was tepid now, but he drank it anyway.

Why waste perfectly good caffeine?

291

58 ATLANTA An EMT ambulance moved slowly, no lights or sirens, through the mostly quiet streets of Atlanta. The SWAT team waited in place at the front entrance of Angie’s condo building.

Other uniform officers were posted in the sub-level parking garage and on the rear fire escape. A female officer waited with the tactical guys in case Angie needed any attention away from the fray. Jimmy thought there was a chance she might panic or faint or have some other problem.

Jimmy stood in front of the SWAT vehicle, reading the search warrant which he wouldn’t need unless Angie reneged at the last minute and refused entry to her place.

Where is that woman? Said she’d be at front door unless there were other people there. Nobody here but us peacekeepers. Let’s go, lady.

At that moment, Angie stepped out from behind a six-foot high cedar tree in a large planter beside the right- side glass door and walked straight toward Jimmy, but two uniforms intercepted her, frisked her, cuffed her and walked her to the vehicle. Jimmy stepped forward with a flashlight, wanting memorize her face.

She leaned toward Jimmy and in a cool-as-ice voice said, “Hello, Detective Hagan. I’m You-Know-Who.” Jimmy asked the officer who patted her down, “Is there any ID in her pocket or a purse?” There wasn’t.

“Now, ma’am, you said when you left this Decker guy in your condo, he was passed out.” She nodded.

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“Where, exactly? Chair, bed, what?”

Angie described the interior of the apartment. Jimmy told her to repeat it for the SWAT team leader, who took her keys to the building front door, her mailbox in the lobby and the fob to the keyless electronic door to her apartment on the second floor.

Jimmy held Angie back away from the door as one of the SWAT cops unlocked it silently, eased it open, peeked around both sides, then motioned for two other members of the SWAT team to go in. They went quickly, aiming left, then right, but stopped halfway through the living room.

“Man slumped in a chair, front room, white male, black hair and eyes, mouth open, white teeth. Really white teeth. Looks unconscious. Vomit on his shirt and pants.”

Jimmy walked up to Rudy and took three iPhone photos. He felt Rudy’s wrist. Pulse faint, erratic. Same for neck. Eyes dilated.

“Search him fast, put it all in baggies,” Jimmy said. “Once the medics take him, we won’t have access for a while.”

Angie and her keeper leaned against a sidewall, watching.

She was quiet, eyes fixed on Rudy. She felt sad, and mad.

If I passed him in a Walmart, I’d never recognize him. Man, Rudy, you fade easily for a big talking, high-rolling scheming piece of trash. Why couldn’t we have something together, Rudy? You were sweet to me, sometimes. But it was all a lie. All about what I could do for you, right? You, you, you. Promises, lies, all wrapped up into one giant, stinking ego.

“Ma’am, we should go downstairs while the medics do their thing. One way or the other, they’ll be taking this man out of here any minute now.”

Angie pulled her arm away from the female officer and walked closer to Rudy, still sprawled in the chair. She walked around him, it, twice. Then, with tears in her eyes, she took two quick steps and stood directly in front of him.

“See ya later, Rudy, in prison perhaps, but at least I may not be on death row.”

Angie leaned back and unleashed a wad of spit that landed on Rudy’s nose, then trickled free-fall onto his cheek and came to rest there.

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She turned and smiled at the cop with her.

“What’s your name, lady officer?” Angie asked with almost a chirp in her voice.

“It’s Angelica, ma’am, Angelica Romano. And yours, ma’am?”

“Angie. Really. Close to Angelica, huh. My last name is Plant.

Angie Plant. Like an orchid or a tomato. Some people call me sweetie. But they really don’t mean it. Oh dear, I told you my name. But, I like you. Don’t tell the detective.”

“Of course. It’ll be our little secret, Angie.”

“And another thing. Please tell Detective Hagan that Rudy may not come around for a while. I gave him three large glasses of bourbon and two full-strength sleeping pills. I figured where he’s going, he’ll be needing some fortification.”

Jimmy told Angelica to sit in a squad car with Angie and a driver and await further instructions.

“A word, first, Detective?” Angelica asked. She and Jimmy walked several paces from the police car.

“Sir,” she said in a whisper, “this CI who won’t say her name?

It’s Angie. A-n-g-i-e. Last name Plant. She told me in confidence because my first name is similar, Angelica, Angelica Romano.”

“Thank you, Officer Romano. I appreciate your help on this.”

“You’re totally welcome, and if I could be of any more assistance, like maybe being in charge of supervising her. I’d like that.”

“Good to know. Go be with her now and we’ll let you know what’s next.”

Knowing she’d still be awake, Jimmy phoned Margaret.

“He’s ours, M, about five minutes ago. As our informant said, Rudy Decker was passed out in her apartment uptown, north of Phipps Plaza. Unreal. She gave him almost half a bottle of bourbon and several sleeping pills. EMTs checked him out and they’ll be at the prisoner section at Grady Hospital any minute now. Please contact the Chief ’s office, then wake up somebody in the media relations department and brief them. Their ears only for now. Too soon to go public, because if we don’t spook our CI, she will lead us to where Nikki is being held hostage. We’ll make her safe and secure before we announce anything. Also, 294

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please alert the FBI. And Detective Sam Graham at Naples PD. And give Bren at GNS and DK Jack at Channel 4 a heads-up. Tell them we’ll have a big story for them soon. Maybe within a couple of hours. And make it clear I know they’ll want to go live with it.”

“Great, Jimmy, congratulations,” Margaret said. “One thing.

Won’t Decker be able to tell you where Nikki and her captors are?”

“Probably not. Our CI says Decker insisted on never going to the hostage house. She says he doesn’t know the address.

One other thing. If the chief or anybody else wants to know the identity of the woman who gave us Rudy, tell them you don’t know it.”

“What’s her name, Jimmy me boy?” Margaret asked, holding the phone away so he could not hear her stifling a giggle.

“Come on, M, you know you can never keep a secret,” Jimmy chided.

“Whoa, there, Jimmy. You say I cannot keep something confidential? If that were true, Mister Chief of Detectives, you’d not only not have your big job here, you’d probably end up being a security guard at a petting zoo in Paraguay. What’s her name?”

“It’s Angie, last name Plant. Satisfied now?” Jimmy asked with a laugh.

“I know one more thing, Jimmy. Apparently your Miss Angie can’t keep a secret any better than you can.”

“Hilarious, M. Now that you know, please work up a file for my eyes only on Angie Plant. Where she lives, works, family, plus all the obvious stuff.”

“Will do, Jimmy.”

“And while you’re at it, see what personnel files you can find on Officer Angelica Romano. She’s the uniform who’s assigned to hang on to the CI for now. Send both reports to my cell phone. No copies anywhere. And a couple more things, M. The informant is pretty fragile right now, hating Decker one minute, hating herself the next. Alert psych services to be on standby, including midlevel suicide watch. We can’t afford to lose her as a resource. I’m going to get the hostage house address from her now. I’ll be there ASAP. Also, any word on finding that doctor guy whose medical 295

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kit contained Nikki Z’s DNA? He probably could lead us straight to the place too.”

Jimmy hurried to the car where he left Angie with Officer Romano.

“Ma’am, we need the address where you claim Nikki Z is being held. And we’re in a big hurry. Nikki Z’s life is in serious jeopardy.”

“I said I would help and I am. But there may be other innocent people in the house and…”

“What people? Who?” “At least two young women, sisters. Don’t hurt them, please.

They helped when we tried to get medical attention for Nikki.”

“Names? What are their names?” Jimmy asked, impatiently.

“Spring and Summer.”

“Listen, lady, get serious.”

“No, honestly, One is named Spring, the other is Summer.

Hippie-type parents.

“Jesus,” Jimmy snapped. “What else? Hurry up.”

“Brock probably will be there.”

“Brock? Brock who? Come on, tell me more.”

“He’s the one who kept calling police and the TV station about a ransom for Nikki’s kidnapping. He’s the primary boss in PAP, People Are the…”

“Enough,” Jimmy said. “The address. Where’s the damn house.”

Angie squirmed in the backseat, recoiling from Jimmy’s anger.

“It’s on Kendrick Street,” she said, her pulse pounding. “I know that. But the number? Thirteen something? Fourteen-ten maybe? I’ll know it if I see it. Right near the zoo. There’s an old, rundown garage out back.”

“What about your cell phone?” Jimmy asked. “Would you have put the street address into a map app, a Google something or other?”

“No, I didn’t. I have apps I never use.” She shrugged at Jimmy.

“Can’t do anything about that now.”

“Let’s go,” Jimmy said to the driver. “Head toward the zoo.

Lights, no sirens.”

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“Honest, Detective. It’s right next to the zoo, or real close.

Wait. Where is my cellphone? Who has it? One of the policemen took it when they handcuffed me. Can you find it?

“You won’t be having or needing a cell phone for quite a while. Forget about it,” Jimmy said.

He called Dispatch and ordered a SWAT team on standby to head to Kendrick Street near the zoo and await directions. He activated the EMT team on standby with the same directive and alerted the police precinct at Zoo Atlanta.

“Any weapons in the house with these people?” Jimmy asked.

“Handguns, rifles, big knives, explosives, anything?”

Angie sat up straighter and leaned toward the front seat headrest.

“Detective, Brock owned a handgun. When he drinks, sometimes he waves it around or presses it near our faces or, or other places on our bodies. He fired into the ceiling once but it didn’t go off. And another time…”

“Thanks. Couple more questions. How many doors in the house – front, rear, side doors, kitchen? “ Angie counted, “Front, kitchen door, which is the back door too. Oh, and a rickety door in the laundry room. Why…” Jimmy made a hush sign, finger on his nose and pursed lips.

He radioed all active police units and medical vehicles with a terse version of what he learned from Angie. He looked at his wristwatch and estimated they would be near the zoo in about twelve minutes. Both Angie and Officer Romano sat up straight, looking around.

Pale, Angie peered through a car window as neighboring homes glided in and out of sight the glow of streetlights. Officer Angelica Romano looked fresh, pumped by this unexpected assignment. She quickly swept the neighborhoods, too, pausing to look thoughtfully at Jimmy for a few extra seconds. His glances at the road ahead and behind them passed by Officer Romano as well, but he instinctively looked away. Angelica did not.

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59 HOSTAGE HOUSE - ATLANTA “Where the hell is Angie? Hello? Summer? Spring? Anybody?”

Brock was half-asleep as he shuffled from the bedroom to the living room of the house where Nikki was captive. He wore a grey sweatshirt and jeans, his pistol in the right front pocket. The TV was on but nobody was watching it. Brock’s fitful nap seemed to have eased the rage he felt at the police and TV news people for not agreeing to a simple cash ransom for Nikki Z’s release.

Still, he needed someone to blame if the scheme fell through.

I’m the only intelligent person in this deal and I’m not going to let the dummies drag me down to their level. That phony lush, Rudy, big whoop, eh? Talks big, never produces. And Angie, a nut case. Mopes around, dithers, acts like her job was to keep an eye on me. What a joke. And the two goofs with the screwy names? Wideeyed morons, I’m thinking.

“Girls, get out here. Where are you?

“In here with Nikki, Brock,” Summer said. “Be right there.”

Spring and Summer had been talking with Nikki about how to put an end to the abduction and how it had become a nightmare for her, them and for Angie, too.

“We need to go out there and calm him down now,” Summer said, “or he’ll start up with the yelling and firing his gun into the ceiling. Spring, go get him to sit down and watch TV or something. I need a word in here with Nikki first. Keep Brock distracted for a few minutes.”

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Summer eased herself onto the edge of the bed where Nikki remained restrained with duct tape.

“Nikki, listen carefully to me and do not react to what I tell you. It’s awful, horrible, but we want to tell you before you hear it on TV or the radio.”

“Tell me, then, Summer. I can’t be in more pain than I already am.”

“You may not remember, with your pain medicine and all, we told you that your producer at Channel 4 was up in North Georgia with Cassandra Page? They were talking to people up there about you being kidnapped. Remember that?”

Nikki nodded, sensing something bad was coming.

“Yeah, RoAnn Gantry, go on, what else?”

“Somehow she and the other TV people were attacked by somebody in the forest…” Summer hesitated, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“She, RoAnn, I mean, oh, Nikki, somebody shot her and the reporter, Miss Page.”

“Dammit it, Summer, how bad is she hurt? Do they know who….”

“Nikki, honey, Nikki, RoAnn is, she, she passed away. I don’t know much else. I’m sorry. Can I get you anything, coffee maybe, or some wine, anything?”

Nikki began to cry, softly at first, then louder, her upper body heaving with the sobs, then louder cries, then shouts of fury and profanity.

“Brock, you bastard,” she screamed toward the living room “you son of a bitch. You and your PAP crap killed my best friend in the world. Come in here so I can see your grotesque, disgusting face, you coward!”

Brock was surprised at Nikki’s outburst. He walked into her room with an exaggerated swagger and stood at the foot of the bed. Nikki raised a few inches on one elbow, as much movement as she could manage.

“Here I am, my pretty little TV star. What lame names are you going to call me now? Look me in the eye and curse me some more. I love it. By the way, you call me disgusting? Have a look at yourself.”

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Brock pulled his smartphone from a rear pocket, punched on the mirror feature and walked to the head of the bed. He leaned in and held the phone mirror near her face.

“Here, get a look at yourself. How about that? Think they would ever put you on TV again, even if you get out of here alive, which is doubtful? That is some ugly person in the mirror, Nikki.

Recognize her? Here, look a little closer.”

“Stop! Stop it this minute!”

Summer rushed toward Brock.

“You bastard,” she shouted at Brock, her left fist pushing him hard in the chest. She yanked the pistol from his pocket and tossed it on the bed, almost within Nikki’s grasp. Nikki lunged for the gun, jerking her injured ankle sent a stabbing pain through her body. She recoiled, then lunged for the gun again, getting a two-finger grip around the pistol.

Brock realized his gun was in her right hand and nothing but the mirrored smart phone in his own hand.

“Come on, Nikki, give me my gun. Our little pity party is over for now. It’s been fun. Now, let’s calm down and talk this over.”

Nikki looked at Spring and Summer and waved them over behind her.

“Now, Brock, don’t move. Stand there and watch me aim the gun in your direction. Now, which leg do you want to keep? Your choice. Pick one.”

Brock burst into tears of fear.

“Are you crazy?” he cried to Nikki. “You’ll go to prison forever if you do that.”

“Pick a leg you want to keep or I’ll shoot off both of them” Brock began shaking and whimpering, his speech unintelligible.

POP. Brock hit the floor as the bullet went into his right knee.

He screamed. Spring and Summer gasped. Nikki gave Brock a cold smile.

“That was for Spring and Summer. You treat them like slaves.

Not anymore. But, hey, your left leg is still fine. Now, which shoulder do you want to keep? Five seconds.”

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“Please, Nikki, stop! Whatever you want…”

“Four, three, two, one…”

POP. The round entered Brock’s left shoulder where it meets the collarbone.

Brock writhed and sobbed and gurgled on the floor. Nikki never winced or smiled.

“Summer, Spring, drag Brock’s sorry ass over this way a little.

I need to be able to see him on the floor. All of him. Now, please.”

They pulled him by his unshattered shoulder several feet toward Nikki’s bed. Brock was delirious.

“Now, back away, girls,” Nikki commanded.

She stared down at Brock for nearly ten seconds, like someone might hover over a kitchen cockroach before dispatching it.

“That was for Angie. She didn’t realize for a while what a complete asshole you are. Now she knows. Next item, Mr. PAP. Which testicle can you spare? Five, four, three, two, one.”

POP. Brock’s screams grew louder and higher as his right testicle disappeared, along with a sizeable piece of his scrotum.

Nikki leaned as far off the bed as she could reach.

“The next part of our little game is my donation to you. Last question, Brock. Hope you’ve enjoyed playing our little game tonight. Which chunk of your brain will you miss the most? The cruel monster part or the life’s failure part? Oh what the hell.

Three-two-one…”

POP- POP. Two bullets disappeared into Brock’s left temple.

Nikki put down the pistol.

“Spring, Summer, thank you for letting me do this. And if anyone asks about it, and we know they will, tell them two things for me. First he deserved it. Second, I was insane, out of my mind, crazy. Now, if one of you would please call 9-1-1 and get me to a hospital I would…”

Nikki’s shoulders slumped and she passed out.

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60 HOSTAGE HOUSE - ATLANTA John and Hilda Gray didn’t always stay up past midnight. But more and more, Hilda could not sleep well, no matter what the hour. John’s earth-shaking snores shook their bedroom, making Hilda more cranky than usual. Several months ago she banished him to the guest bedroom of their modest, one-story house in a neighborhood surrounding Zoo Atlanta.

“You make more noise with your awful snoring than the zoo peacocks do with their braying,” Hilda was fond of saying. “But at least they look good in their plumage when they strut around.

More than I can say for you.”

Hilda usually fell asleep soon after her rants. That was fine with John. He mostly ignored her. He’d rather hear the peacocks’ HAY-UP sound than his wife’s constant kvetching.

What Hilda considered as punishment for John was, to him, a get-out-of-jail-free pass. Besides, nobody stayed in that room since the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta. By default it was John’s man cave. He did not know that phrase yet. He was a low-maintenance occupant. His peaceful nights for the most part consisted of enjoying a couple of Heinekens while watching late night TV shows. That included the Global News Service Wee Hour Headlines and the local Atlanta area nightly news on Channel 4.

It was John’s favorite channel, largely because Nikki Z was, as he put it, his nightly heartthrob.

“That TV news gal is one tough cookie,” he told Hilda one morning a month ago.

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“John you old fool, those TV people are all alike. Especially the gussied up bimbos. Their fake eyelashes are so long the girls look like giraffes. Get over it, you geezer.”

Since then, John seldom shared TV news tidbits with Hilda.

When John heard Nikki was kidnapped, his interest in her ballooned. One reason was he assumed he knew something Hilda didn’t. Always a satisfying feeling.

I’ll bet she doesn’t know that Nikki Z is a hostage somewhere, probably here in Atlanta. Man, I hope she escapes and survives.

Maybe I’ll write her a nice fan letter when she comes back on TV. Sure would like to see her in person, maybe get an autograph. I’d better hide it from Hilda though.

John often dozed off and slept for a couple or three hours.

That night, he slept through the infomercials for fighting male incontinence and for a kitchen device that made tasty muffins completely out of bacon. Then, when Channel 4 came on with its Night Owl Meets Early Bird news show, John started to stir. He sat up, drained the final ounce from a Heineken bottle and focused on the TV screen.

John was shocked and upset when he saw the news report that a producer from Channel 4 was shot to death in some sort of gunfight in the north Georgia mountains.

Wonder if she knows Nikki Z? Probably does. What a business.

Shootings, kidnappings. Seems like the news people are making news themselves these days. Odd. POP. John heard the sound and wondered what it was. A car backfire? Gunfire?

He thought he heard someone cry out, maybe yelling, but it was faint. Eight or nine seconds later, POP. A louder cry. Then quiet. Then, POP. Then quiet again for maybe fifteen seconds.

Then POP-POP. Two pops almost together. Quiet. Nothing more.

Before John could put on a bathrobe he left on a hook in the bathroom, a louder, closer noise almost spun him around.

Hilda was pounding on the guest room door.

“John, John. Wake up, John! I think somebody is shooting a gun outside or maybe in the house next door. And I heard someone screaming.”

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“No, it’s probably from the TV, Hilda. Go back to bed and put a pillow over your face. I mean your ears.”

“Get out here, you old goat. Call 9-1-1 or I will and I’ll tell ’em you refused to make the call. There was shooting, John, and screaming. What if it spooks the animals in the zoo? What if they get out?”

“Shut up, woman. I’m calling now.”

“Is this 9-1-1, Atlanta police?” John asked, even though the person who answered said, “9-1-1, what’s your location and nature of your emergency?”

“I’ve never called 9-1-1 before…”

“Sir, your location and emergency, please.”

“I’m in my house in Atlanta. The address is Thirteen-thirteen Kendrick Street. Somebody seems to be firing a gun in my yard or at a neighbor’s house. That would be Thirteen-seventeen Kendrick. Somebody was yelling too, making a racket. Should I go check it out for ya?”

“No, no, no sir, do not go outside. And stay away from windows and doors. We have law enforcement on the way. Do you know who lives in that house or anything about the residents?”

“Hang on a sec, young lady. Hilda, Hilda,” he shouted. “Who lives in the house one door up? Police want to know.”

Hilda walked into the room and took the phone away from John.

“I see them, they come and go,” she said to the 9-1-1 operator.

“It’s a rental. A few days ago, several women were in and out and some of them are staying overnights, I think. Listen, while I have you, can you do something about the parking in our neighborhood on weekends? I mean, the zoo parking spills over and we…”

“Thank you ma’am,” the 9-1-1 person said. “Help is on the way.”

Hilda looked at the phone, scowled at it briefly, then turned her frown face on John.

“If you were more persistent with that police person on the phone, she might not have been eager to hang up on me,” she said.

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“I’m sure you’re right, Hilda. Sorry. I’ll do better next time someone shoots up the neighborhood.”

Within a few minutes, the 9-1-1 center received seven other calls from people living near the zoo who heard what sounded like gunfire. 9-1-1 alerted Jimmy, knowing he was on his way to the area, along with SWAT, EMTs and officers from the police precinct at the zoo. Callers were bursting with scenarios to report.

A few of the theories were creative. Two callers insisted the bang bang noise was chemicals exploding in one or more secret neighborhood meth labs. Two others swore to the 9-1-1 person that escaped zoo animals were grazing in their back yards. One of those insisted that an alpaca was nibbling on lingerie left on an outdoor clothesline overnight. The 9-1-1 team’s favorite was the caller who said he didn’t know anything about the shooting noises, but they probably were George Bush’s fault.

The fourth call was the most helpful. When Nikki passed out, Summer called 9-1-1 and gave the address of the kidnap house, Thirteen-seventeen Kendrick. Word was passed to all hands.

“Detective, I know this place and I need to be in there,” Angie said. “Nikki probably is still duct-taped to a bedpost in the back bedroom. Be careful. She can’t walk by herself and her ankle is damaged in several places. I can help her.” She reached for the car door. Officer Romano grabbed her by the handcuffed wrists and pulled her back into the rear seat.

“Sorry, Angie, nobody goes in until Detective Hagan and the others have secured the area.”

Jimmy looked over his shoulder as he got out of the car and drew his gun. Officer Romano looked up and gave him a nod and an admiring smile.

“Wait here, Angelica, he said. “I mean, Officer Romano. Keep Angie in the car. And be careful. It’s an active crime scene.”

The neighborhood was erupting with activity and noise.

Daylight crept in, slowly, in fingerlings, trying to catch up with the blur of action. Police cars, two ambulance vehicles and the SWAT team’s tank-like vehicle moved into a V-shape drape around the front yard. An assault team and a mobile command and control unit drew up at a ninety-degree angle in a stubby 305

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arrowhead formation. EMT and fire/rescue vehicles pulled around to the back, where first responders swarmed. It was clear that nobody was getting out of the house without permission.

Police kicked in the doors, aware that gunfire came from the house a few minutes before.

“ATLANTA POLICE! PUT GUNS ON THE FLOOR AND LAY FACE DOWN! HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK.” *** After the house and garage were secured, Jimmy decided his first priority was to update Police Chief Lutz on the events overnight. He wanted to do it himself, and he wanted it to be brief.

“Sir, it’s under control,” Jimmy said. “The kidnapped woman, Nikki Z, is safe, en route to Grady Hospital. She has a major injury, ankle mostly. That’s all I know about it now. Also, at the scene, one of the kidnappers, a white male, was found unresponsive in the house with multiple bullet wounds. Details to follow.

Two women, apparently part of the kidnap team, were arrested without incident, no injuries. Earlier, at another location, we captured Rudy Decker, the apparent key man in the abduction scheme against Nikki Z. He apparently overdosed on booze and sleeping pills. He’s now in the police lockup at Grady. And a heads up on that, Chief. The FBI wants him for the kidnapping and Naples, Florida police want him on a murder charge.”

“Good work, Detective,” Chief Lutz said. “How soon can we set up a full-blown news conference here? And, of course, I’ll want you by my side on that.”

Jimmy’s next call was to the nurses’ station near the O-R at Piedmont Hospital.

He was frustrated with the message. Cassie was stable but the procedure was not over. He should call again in about an hour. “Oh, I almost forgot, Detective Hagan,” the nurse said.

“Miss Page’s parents flew in late last night and are staying at the Marriott.”

Jimmy called Margaret on her home phone.

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“Good morning, M. I need your help. Again. Cassie’s still in surgery. No info yet. But her mom and dad are here. I need to be at the hospital with them when the doctors finish Cassie’s surgery and have time for us.”

“Great, how can I help? Margaret asked. “Want me there too?”

“Yeah, but no. I need you to talk to your friend in the Chief ’s office and tell her to tell him that I can’t do the news conference until about, uh, two and a half hours from now. Let’s use the large media room. The Chief says he wants me with him. I’ll give him an updated briefing before.”

“Done deal, Jimmy. You see to sweet Cassie and her folks right now.”

Sweet Cassie, M said. I wish Cassie could be with me here right now, to share all this. She’d be bugging me for information and I’d give it to her a little at a time, teasing her. Like old times. Like the good times. God, please let her live. We have a good thing going.

And we still can. If I don’t screw it up.

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61 PIEDMONT HOSPITAL - ATLANTA “Oh, Jimmy, there’s much we don’t know, please tell us everything,” Cassie’s mother said, hugging Jimmy when he walked into the waiting room. Cassie’s father stood up and extended a hand to Jimmy, fumbled nervously, then put his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and pulled him closer.

“You don’t know how having you here makes us feel,” Mr. Page said. “We’ve been in a daze since that nice woman in your office phoned us. Marguerite was it?”

“Margaret, yes, she’s a rock,” Jimmy said. “But she couldn’t tell you much because the surgery is still ongoing.” He motioned for the Pages to sit on one of the two-seater couches. “The latest is Cassie still is in stable but critical condition. And if nothing changes, the doctor, her name is Sierra Tomé, will come out and answer all our questions. Probably within the next forty-five minutes.”

“Son,” Mr. Page asked, “can you at least tell us how and why Cassie was shot? Who did it and why?

“And why was she in the mountains?” Cassie’s mom asked.

“There was something on the TV about bears and hunters,” she said, unable to hold back tears. “Other people were shot too and…oh it’s all so awful…” She sobbed, turning to her husband, trying to hide her face in the sleeve of his brown leather jacket.

Jimmy waited until her crying diminished, knowing it would be best for her to let it out after the hours of fear and turmoil and not knowing.

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“Sir, may I get you and Mrs. Page a cup of coffee or tea or something to eat?” Jimmy asked. Mr. Page shook his head.

“We don’t need anything except information from the doctors, but thank you, Jimmy. Thank you for everything.”

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Page.” Bren Forrest slid the glass front door closed. “I’d recognize you anywhere from the photos Cassie has of you on her office desk. I’m glad you are here. Is there anything you need or want? Anything at all?”

Mrs. Page looked confused and turned to her husband. He spoke softly into her ear, “I think she’s Cassie’s boss, sweetheart, the woman who owns the TV channel where Cassie works.”

“Hello,” Mr. Page said tentatively. You are…”

“Bren Forrest, sir, I work with Cassie. And I’m on the board of this hospital. She is in good hands.” She turned to Jimmy. “Isn’t that right, Detective Hagan?” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, of course. And we’re expecting Dr. Tomé to join us any minute now.”

“Here I am,” Sierra said with a big smile. At five-feet ten inches tall, Dr. Tomé needed to lean over to share eye level with Cassie’s parents. With her long black hair, alluring eyes, deep bronze complexion and smooth voice, she easily could be mistaken for a glamorous super model playing the role of a famous surgeon on TV. But she also sizzled with a laser-like intensity barely coated with the calming bedside manner of a venerable pro.

“Mr. and Mrs. Page, let me get straight to Cassie’s situation.

First, she is in critical but stable condition. We won’t know for up to seventy-two hours whether she will survive her serious injuries.

Something still can go wrong. And, if she does pull through, she will have a long, arduous recovery. Other surgeries may be necessary. Several organs are damaged and we’re developing a plan to deal with that. There is a chance she will survive, yes, but she has damage to a lung and to her esophagus. Keep in mind she survived the surgery today and is stable. Do you have any questions?”

“Questions, Doctor?” Cassie’s father asked, tears in his eyes, slight trembling in his hands. “Questions? How did this happen?

Who shot her? Why? A chance you say? A chance she’ll live? Is that the best we can hope for? A chance? God.” 309

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Mrs. Page took her husband’s hands and held them to her chest, leaning forward, sobbing.

“Shhh, Randolph,” she said in a whisper, moaning softly, her eyes closed.

“Pray with me, sweetheart,” she said, holding her husband tighter. “Cassie is strong and we have to be strong for her.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Dr. Tomé motioned with her head for a nurse and ordered a sedative should Cassie’s parents need it.

After a few more minutes of silent weeping, Mrs. Page wiped her eyes, straightened her shoulders and put her arm around her husband’s waist.

“When can we see her, Doctor?” Cassie’s mother asked. “Can she talk to us at all and can we talk to her?”

“I know you want her to know you’re here praying for her.

Right now she’s not ready for a conversation. She remains heavily sedated. But I know sometimes seeing a loved one through the glass is comforting. Would you like to do that?”

“Yes, oh yes, please,” said Mrs. Page. Her husband nodded to her.

“Come with me now,” Sierra said.

Sierra led the Pages and Jimmy through automatic doors and down the hall. Bren Forrest stayed in the waiting room. She phoned Daryl Evans, the Global News Service cameraman still working in the mountains, producing hourly live updates on the network.

“Daryl, Bren here. We need you back here in Atlanta. The kidnapping has ended, as you know, but the story is still hot, like a paparazzi convention in Atlanta. Max will send another cameraman up there, but I’d like you back here by late tonight.

Will that work for you?”

It worked fine for Daryl. “I’ll be home before midnight. How’s Cassie doing?”

“She came through the monster surgery today,” Bren said.

“But it’s still touch-and-go. Sierra says they won’t know for a few days. Cassie’s folks are here. It’s bad, Daryl.”

“How about Nikki Z?” 310

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“Alive, but with a major, messed-up ankle. She was tied or taped to a bed. One medic said her ankle looked like an exploded Rubik’s Cube. But did you hear what Nikki apparently did to one of the kidnappers? Shot him five times, one at a time. In the knee, shoulder, testicles, then twice in the head.”

“I like it,” Daryl said. “My kind of self defense. Handgun?”

“Apparently, why?”

“Too bad Nikki didn’t have RPGs.” *** “She looks so small in there, Randolph,” Cassie’s mother said to her husband. “All those awful machines, tubes going everywhere, frightening noises, bells and pings, and, and, she’s very fragile.” Mrs. Page visibly struggled to stand upright, as if trying to empower Cassie to do the same.

“All those flashing lights and numbers,” Mrs. Page said. “It must make her nervous and afraid.”

Jimmy stood and put his arm around Cassie’s mother, who was trying to be strong but could not help sagging. She extended an arm to touch the glass window, for physical or emotional support. Or both.

“Can she see us or hear us, Dr. Tomé?” Mrs. Page asked.

“No, ma’ am,” Sierra said softy. “But right now the best thing for her is to stay sedated and quiet, to rest. This room is an ICU, intensive care unit. The staff is wonderful. I promise you. Maybe we should step out in the hall now so they can take good care of her. This way, please.” *** Jimmy’s cell phone hummed. It was Margaret. He gave her a quick update on the family, the doctor’s report and how Cassie looked in that room full of people and machines trying to keep her alive.

“I think Cassie is on the edge. I have to be here. I mean, if she takes a turn, starts to fail, I need to be here. Her folks are emotionally on empty.

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“Jimmy, take it easy. Let me come to the hospital and take your place. You could run over here, do a quick tick-tock of events for the media, answer a few questions and beg off the rest.

People will understand. And I’ll make sure everything is covered at Piedmont while you’re not there.”

“Sorry, M, but I can’t.”

“You know Chief Lutz, Jimmy. If he panics, he might freeze or act the fool if you’re not around and you’d get the blame. This may be the highest profile, cop-related news story of the year in our town, which means it could end up being a career booster.

Or something else.”

“Thanks, M. You’re the best. But, I need to be here. You good with that?” Jimmy’s eyes filled with tears.

“Blow Cassie a kiss for me, Jimmy.”

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62 ATLANTA Nikki Z was having a medical battle, too. She was unconscious when three EMTs reached her in the hostage house. They cut the duct tape to free her from the bed, made a quick assessment of the damaged ankle and foot, checked her vital signs and took her to the emergency room at Grady Hospital. She came to during the transfer to a Grady gurney and gasped with pain.

“Easy, ma’am, you’re safe at the hospital,” the senior EMT said. “And you’re free now.”

When the EMTs were back in their ambulance, the junior partner, Kara, said to Ron, “I’m curious, why did you tell the patient, ‘You’re free now?’”

“Because she is,” Ron said. “Didn’t you notice she was taped to that bed? And it’s been all over the news.”

“Yeah, but don’t forget this is my first day back after two weeks off. Out of the country. It could have been nothing more than some kinky sex game. It’s not our business, right, Ron? Who was the patient?”

“It’s Nikki Z, the TV news woman,” Ron said, thinking Kara was joking. “The one who was kidnapped about a week ago.”

“Okay.”

“Did you by any chance notice the dead man on the floor by the bed? The one full of bullet holes?”

“Of course, but Audrey was all over that situation so I didn’t interrupt,” Kara said.

“Why was he full of bullet holes? Who shot him?”

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“Don’t know yet,” Ron responded. “But he’s dead. It’s the medical examiner’s problem, not ours.” *** The big screen TV in the family waiting area at Piedmont Hospital was tuned to Channel 4. But several clutches of people seated around the room were left to their own devices, cell phones, iPads, Super Kindles and others. Some were watching Global News Service and other cable channels. One teenager was fiddling with a video gadget affixed to his eyeglasses. The various devices all were tuned to this or that coverage of the breaking story happening in Atlanta and getting worldwide attention.

Atlanta was seldom the center of America’s media universe.

General Sherman got a lot of ink in 1864 when his Union troops won the Battle of Atlanta.

Hank Aaron was a media hit with his 715th career home run in 1974, dethroning Babe Ruth as baseball’s home run king.

Other memorable moments included the birth of the civil rights movement in the 1960s, the terrorist bombing during the 1996 Olympics and the founding of Coca Cola in 1892.

Historians might scoff at equating the media circus of the moment with the star-powered sagas of General Sherman and Hank Aaron, but tell that to today’s politicians, pundits and pop culture poobahs.

From the day Nikki Z was snatched to the morning of her rescue, in-your-face news media coverage and pervasive social media dominated public discourse. The phrase, Hashtag Nikki Z, popped up everywhere. Desperate pleadings filled the Facebook pages of ditsy adolescents from Kitty Hawk to Ketchikan.

Pinterest was deluged with do-it-yourself ideas on making Save Nikki Z placemats that could be converted to quilted tea cozies when the Nikki craze waned. Several Nikki Z News websites sprang up, featuring bogus news alert bulletins about alleged sightings of Nikki, usually in third-world countries. One of the Nikki Z News websites offered an exclusive interview with Zeus and his daughter Zeusette who, it said were Nikki Z’s namesakes.

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No wonder the news conference at Atlanta Police Headquarters was the place to be.

The auditorium barely accommodated all the TV cameras crammed into it. Print media people were shunted into a smaller conference room, elbow to shoulder blade, standing room only.

The only way any one of the media people in the small room could turn around would be to orchestrate all the scribes to turn in sync. Police Chief Lutz created the concept a few years before.

Tried several times, it usually ended in collisions, harsh words and derision aimed at the chief.

Tough luck, media pimps.

Chief Lutz paced in his office several flights up, angry that his Chief of Detectives, Jimmy Hagan, was not in attendance.

I’m going to make this news conference a success, a triumph for my administration without Hagan. I’ll be the star without his help. Maybe some of the know-it-all media around here will realize that his big grin and get-the-girls charm is not what makes this department outstanding. He has the smile, but I have the guile.

Some media creeps say my leadership is shaky. Shaky. Oh no, Mr. Hotshot Detective Hagan. You will pay for refusing to obey my orders to be at this major media event. *** Jimmy walked slowly up and down the hallway leading to the Intensive Care Unit. He knew if he paced too rapidly, it would rattle Cassie’s parents who were sitting on a small couch in the waiting area, upright, hands folding and unfolding. When a nurse or other staffers entered or left the area, the Pages would glance over, watching for a sign, a shrug or a gesture, any sort of signal, any action that might connect to Cassie’s medical status.

Mr. Page occasionally would raise a hand to his mouth, as if he were about to bite a nail. Each time, Cassie’s mother would send him a spousal signal of disapproval. It was a speed-of-light shake of the head, as recognizable to most married men from as far away as the Hubble telescope could see.

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At the end of Jimmy’s walking range near the ICU was a small anteroom with three small chairs and a TV tuned to Channel 4, Nikki Z’s station. The screen showed a wide shot of the assembly hall at police headquarters. The stage was set, literally, with a podium in front of a semicircle of folding chairs, soon to be occupied by men and women in snazzy, navy blue uniforms with gold braid, epaulettes, and smart-looking caps designed to make the wearers appear taller than they are. A few other dignitaries in civilian clothes also would soon appear, some no doubt wishing they too could sport a bit of brass and some shiny, arching headgear.

The buzz in the room seemed to be nearing dangerous decibel disorder. A tall, graceful policewoman, wearing the double bars of a captain, entered the room from the left side of the hall. She walked to the podium and clicked on the wireless microphone.

She looked around the room, smiled broadly, then backed off the dazzle factor a bit.

Be careful. It’s a news conference, Dory, not a graduation celebration.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Atlanta Police Headquarters. I am Captain Dory Thirsk, an aide to the Chief of Police. He will be here to take your questions in a few minutes.

He is gathering the latest information on the events of the past few hours.” From the rear of the auditorium a tension-filled voice penetrated the din. “Ma’am, I mean, Captain, we are on deadlines and need to hurry things along now. Can we talk to the Chief?”

A rumbling sound of assent arose, plus a few shouts of, “Yes, let’s go” and one noisy “Chief, where are you? Come out, come out wherever you are.” Captain Thirsk smiled, then said, “Chief Lutz wants to get the information to you accurately. Yes, he knows you want to be first. But surely you want to get it right first, right ladies and gentlemen of the media?”

Jimmy pegged the situation immediately as a ham-handed, Chief Lutz ploy.

Any minute now he’s gonna rush out to the podium, waving a bunch of Burger King take-out menus and claim it’s late-breaking news from the media’s best friend, Chief R. E. Lutz. Christ. Come 316

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on, Dory, This sucks. Don’t let the chief get away with his little charade. These reporters from out of town may be rude, but they’re not rubes. Dory, you have a shot at the chief ’s job one day. Don’t let Lutz pull you down into his phony world.

Jimmy thought for a second that Dory had read his mind. He was right.

Dory smiled, “Ladies and gentlemen, Atlanta’s awardwinning Chief of Police R.E. Lutz.” She threw her arms wide, as if embracing the lights, the cameras and the men and women of the media. Her fetching smile filled the camera lenses and more than a few imaginations. The cameras lingered on her a second longer than necessary, then dutifully widened their view to pick up Chief Lutz as he approached the podium. *** Cassie’s parents sat through it all from the couch in the hospital waiting room. Jimmy stood behind, close enough to reach out if they needed him. He tried to dissuade them from watching what was sliding into a media-soaked spectacular, but the Pages insisted.

“We still are confused about Cassie’s role in this whole mess,” Mr. Page said to Jimmy. “How did this poor woman, Nikki Z, I mean, how did her getting kidnapped end up with Cassie getting shot by some lunatic up in the mountains? Why did it happen?”

Mrs. Page began to cry softly as Jimmy put a hand on her shoulder. She was suffering somewhere between grief and exhaustion. But, as Chief Lutz motioned the buzzing media into silence, her expression hardened.

“Jimmy, please turn up the sound,” she asked. “I need to hear and see this clearly so I can tell Cassie all about it later.” At that, Mr. Page looked down, his chin touching his chest, his eyes closed, his lips moving. “Amen and amen.” ***

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“Damn it to hell, DK,” Nikki Z said in a contempt-laced snarl, “I’ll bet your boss at Channel 4 is dancing up and down the halls of the building over the audience tuned in to see this circus.”

She pointed at the TV in her private hospital room, tuned to the police news conference, then turned back to DK. He was at her bedside frequently since she had been admitted, endured her roiling resentment at the shooting death of her dearest friend, TV producer and soul mate, RoAnn Gantry. DK watched Nikki writhe in pain if the nurse was a few minutes late with major medication for her splintered ankle. And DK also squeezed her hand in support when Nikki’s anger erupted, aimed at the evil man she shot five times. “It was an execution, no question,” Nikki said softly to DK when no one else was in the hospital room. “Flat out. I showed him no mercy.” Her voice withered to a whisper.

“And I loved it, DK. Call me evil, and I know somebody will.

It was evil, like that cretin who shot RoAnn and Cassie up in the woods. He was evil, too.”

“Don’t talk that way, Nikki,” DK said.

“I won’t, until I get back to the anchor desk at Channel 4.

Or maybe I’ll divulge it while I am emceeing the Beastly Feast.

Did you forget I am the mistress of ceremonies? Then I’ll tell everybody. I will, DK. I will. And you and the brass at the TV station will cluck your tongues and suggest I take a vacation and get some help.”

DK stood, moved to Nikki’s bedside and patted her shoulder.

“Get some rest, Nikki. It’s over now. He blew her a modest air kiss and walked out of the room. In the hall he touched the memo app on his iPhone: “Re: Nikki. Ask doctor to order complete psych workup ASAP.” *** When the doctor entered her private room at Piedmont Hospital, Nikki Z spoke before he could say a word.

“Doc, I have three questions before we go further. Number one, are you the best foot and ankle surgeon there is?”

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“Good morning to you, too, Ms. Zachos. You mean you haven’t Googled me yet? If not, don’t bother. All my patients tell their friends they have the best ankle surgeon in the country. In my entire career I’ve never heard anybody say to a friend, ‘My doctor is the twentieth best ankle guy in America.’ Next question.”

“Good answer. Number two, can you guarantee I will have full use of that ankle and foot before too long?”

“Ms. Zachos, may I call you Nikki Z, by the way?”

“It depends on your answer to my second question, Doc.” “Ma’am, I can’t guarantee you’ll have full use of your other ankle and foot. But I am pretty good at it so, if you’re ready, we need to proceed. It’s a big project, with the latest tools and, of course, my magic. What do you think, ma’am?”

“Tell you what, Doc, call me Nikki Z” “How about just Z?” “Z it is then,” Nikki said.

“One other question, Z. Why were you transferred to us here at Piedmont from Grady Hospital? They do good work there, too.”

“Doc, I’m a powerful, influential member of the media and I willed it,” Nikki said straight-faced. “Any more questions?”

I can’t tell them the truth. I have all these people afraid of me, I think. But it won’t last if I admit I wanted to be closer to where Cassie is.

“By the way, Doc, could you tell me the room number of another patient here at Piedmont? Her name is Cassandra Page.

I need it post haste.”

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63 ATLANTA - NORTH GEORGIA & NAPLES “This is a satisfying time for the Atlanta Police Department and a great day for Atlantans and all Americans to feel good about our system of law and order. It has worked admirably.”

Chief Lutz was smiling, listing, for the media and TV audiences everywhere, the good news and the not so good. Good first.

“The miscreants who snatched Nikki Zachos off a public street in our city are in custody and no longer a threat. The good people of Atlanta can rest, knowing her ordeal is over. She is getting excellent medical care and is expected to make a full recovery from her injuries.”

As Chief Lutz droned on, many of the news camera people, bored with him, craned their necks and held cameras higher to get wide views of the room, looking for other video moments to record until the Chief began to take questions.

Captain Thirsk, standing at the edge of the stage watching her boss perform, made a few mental do-and-don’t notes. The observations were for her own future, not his. Slowly she became uneasy, feeling something wasn’t quite right. She looked around the room, then at the podium, and there it was. Chief Lutz had walked on stage, preparing to begin his love affair with the bright lights. But, in his internal reverie, he had forgotten about the other cops and politicians, his claque, his lickspittles, there to bolster his image as a leader, who should have been in the empty chairs behind him. Dory almost laughed out loud.

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All those empty chairs. Those guys must be fuming at the edges of their egos and tempers. Are they gonna blame me? No way. The Chief always does it his way. He comes out alone after Jimmy or I intro him, then he ‘graciously’ invites his minions to swarm behind him on stage. Oh my God, this is hilarious. I should tell him. Yeah, I will, but first let me think about it for a while. *** Rudy’s effort to sleep in the drafty police lockup was less and less effective as the excesses of the evening at Angie’s condo waned. The sleeping pills she gave him, along with bountiful pours of bourbon, had left him mostly numb in the hospital. But sobriety intruded when Rudy was locked in a jail cell with two other men who also were awaiting their first court appearance.

Rudy’s turn before the judge was fast. He looked at the charges against Rudy and set the next hearing for six-weeks out.

“We’re allowing that long, Mr. Decker, because it’ll take a while to coordinate your status with all the law enforcement agencies who also want a piece of the action.”

“What does that mean, Judge, ‘a piece of the action?’ Says who?”

“Mr. Decker, I suggest you keep your mouth shut until you have counsel. A quick glance at the record shows at least eight agencies would like the pleasure of your company in their courtrooms and correctional institutions. We’re done here for now. You will be our guest until further notice, without bail.”

Back in the cell, Rudy’s sociopathic propensities flourished.

It’s all Angie’s fault, calling the cops on me and thinking she and I were going to be together. What a joke and the joke’s on her. She can’t prove anything on me. Jilting that mousy broad isn’t a crime.

It’s natural. Did I arrange to snatch Nikki Z? Nope. I made a few phone calls here and there. I can lay that on Angie and on Brock.

Yeah, Brock. What a tool. He has money, too, and so does his family. All I’d have to do is get cash from them to keep quiet about Brock, the kidnapping, the ransom and stuff. Besides, forget all that. With enough cash, I can find a way to bust out of here, then to some place with no extradition treaty.

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Chief Lutz quickly regained the attention of the media people at his news conference when he said, “I have an update in the case. As you know, the list of charges pending against Rudolph Decker is long and ugly. The charges include felony murder in the State of Florida, conspiracy to commit murder here in Georgia, kidnapping, also in Georgia, and more. And we don’t want to overlook his alleged role in a poaching ring, menacing our beloved wildlife here in Georgia. Details…” the chief droned on. *** “Damn right Rudy is wanted in Florida,” Detective Sam Graham said to the TV set. He and two other Naples PD detectives were watching live coverage on Global News Service of Atlanta’s police chief talking about the charges against Rudy Decker.

“We have him easy,” Sam said to the few people within earshot of the detectives’ desks. “Premeditated homicide. Only question is whether the feds will get first crack at him on the kidnapping charge.”

“Does it matter to you, Sam?” asked another detective.

“Kinda’ does. Selfishly, a sexy story like this might be a boost for Naples as a city, might liven things up. Maybe we’d get to be the setting for one of those cool cop shows, CSI Naples or Law and Order - Billionaires’ Row. Trouble is, we don’t have much major crime here. We’d have to import a pipeline full of perps to create enough cop shows, unless maybe they’d be willing to call it, CSI Hospice. Now that has potential.” *** “Hi, Margaret, Sam Graham Naples PD here. How are you, how’s Jimmy and how is Cassie?”

“Sam, I’m fine, Jimmy is stressed and worried about Cassie and Cassie is hanging in there. Docs are guarded. You never know. What can I do for you, Sam?” “I hate to bother you but right now I’d hate to bother Jimmy more.”

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“Sure, I understand. What’s up?”

“Naples PD and other Florida law enforcement will ask Georgia to extradite Rudy Decker so we can try him for the murder of Hunter Freeman. It’ll go through channels, but Decker has so many charges pending - yours, ours, the feds - we want to get our oar in early. Thought maybe Jimmy could help.”

“Sam, I promise I’ll get with Jimmy on that. Not sure when, but I won’t forget.”

“Thanks much, Margaret. One more favor. A prominent woman here in Naples was key in helping us get DNA evidence on Decker. She’s rich, generous, a supporter of our zoo and we owe her. I want to go to the big Zoo Atlanta fundraiser, Beastly something. And I’d like to bring her. Would it be possible for…”

“No worries, Sam. The Beastly Feast. Done deal. Let’s do details tomorrow, but you’ll have tickets and whatever comes with.”

“Thanks, Margaret. Can’t wait to see you there.” *** Agatha Wearmsley seldom watched daytime television, but her viewing habits changed after she helped Naples police with evidence against Rudy Decker. She became a fan of the crimebusting coverage on Global News Service and a big fan of Naples Detective Sam Graham. She also never missed Police Chief Lutz’s regular news briefings, carried live on The Atlanta Police Department’s website. Her favorite part was when Chief Lutz announced the capture of Rudy, or as the chief put it, “Fugitive from justice and murder suspect Rudolph Decker.”

Agatha Googled Rudolph Decker. She was hoping to find a complete list of the charges against him and did, on the website of Channel 4. She was enjoying herself more with each new felonious entry when her cell sounded.

“Hello, Sam, I mean Detective Graham, I mean Sam. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? Are you watching the Chief ’s briefing about Rudy?”

“You bet and I won’t keep you from it, Agatha. But I need to ask, what are you doing this coming weekend? Any big plans?”

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“Let me think. Oh yes, one thing. I’m surprised you’ve not heard, Sam. Some other civic-minded citizens and I will be hanging Rudy Decker by his way-too-white teeth from a lamppost in downtown Naples on Fifth Avenue, in the courtyard at the Sugden Theater. The Naples Players will be superb extras, playing the angry mob. Starts at Happy Hour. Alberto’s is catering.

Would you be my guest?”

Sam grinned and checked his calendar.

“Hmm, weekend, Happy Hour. Yes, I’ll come. I was calling to invite you to come with me to Atlanta for the weekend, including that famous annual bash, the Beastly Feast. Knowing your love of our zoo here. We’d dress up and mix it up with the critters at Zoo Atlanta and with some generous donors. You’ll have a lot in common, and I’ll get to introduce you as the fabulous woman who helped solve the case against Rudy. But, on second thought, I know you wouldn’t miss giving him the ultimate root canal instead.”

“Sam, Sam, you silly, sweet man. I’d love to visit Hotlanta.

What a wonderful idea. Thank you.”

“Great, glad you can make it. I’ll make flight arrangements and get right back to you.

“You don’t have to do that, Sam. Let me know an hour before you want us to leave Naples. That’s plenty of notice.”

“What?”

“We’ll take my plane. It’s a roomy, private jet. It will be just the two of us, plus the two pilots, of course. And, Sam, about Rudy’s comeuppance here in Naples, we can string him up on Fifth Avenue any time we want. All we need to do is give the caterers a little notice and a big deposit.” *** The station wagon that pulled up in front of Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures looked like Chevy Chase’s rode-hard Ford wagon, with cranky kids, creepy relatives and a woman way too pretty for Chevy Chase. The driver, not as cool as Clark Griswold, slid out and tugged at the yellow police crime scene tape that cordoned off the property.

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“This does not look like a Waffle House, honey,” the comely lady in the front passenger seat said. “Maybe we should have turned left at that intersection about a mile past the highway.”

Gary’s Scary Mountain Adventures was closed for reasons unknown to those hapless tourists. More informed locals feigned ignorance. They all knew, however, that Gary and his younger brother Earl were in police custody, Gary in a cell at the county jail, Earl in a guarded room at the County Hospital.

The tourists backed out of the Scary Gary driveway, hoping to get a Waffle House meal down the road. Their goal was food, but they also were about to hear an earful of rumor and speculation about what could be the most interesting vacation of their lives.

When they parked their wreck and walked into the restaurant, their senses were bombarded by waves of conversation, bursts of body language, aromas of strong coffee, treacly syrup, the hiss of waffle irons and the buzz of agitated people talking to each other, but also yelling at the flat screen TVs on the walls.

“Come on in,” Roz said in a loud voice to the newcomers. “It’s kind of a weird day. Folks here aren’t normally this rowdy, but the place has been on TV lately and people are uneasy. Grab a seat at the counter and I’ll get your orders in a sec.”

The parents looked at each other, nodded and guided their kids and grandma to the counter stools.

“What’s this all about?” the mom asked a woman next to her. The lady pointed to her cheeks, indicating her mouth was full and she couldn’t talk at that moment. Her plate was draped with a pizza-sized waffle, strewn with syrupy strawberries and whipped cream.

Roz leaned over to the tourists, ready to take their orders.

Unable to hear over the din in the diner, the visitors made their selections with a combination of hand gestures resembling an amateur rock-paper-scissors tournament.

“Look at the TV,” a customer shouted, pointing at the TVs around the room.

On the TV screens was a headline: POACHING RING BUSTED IN NORTH GEORGIA SHOOTOUT The words began to crawl across the lower third of the screen.

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BEAR POACHERS GONE WILD. ONE PERSON KILLED. THREE WOUNDED. A DEADLY, ILLEGAL OPEN SEASON ON BLACK BEARS? DETAILS AHEAD. The silence in the Waffle House was profound. Several customers hurried to pay their bills and moved quickly to their cars and trucks. The befuddled tourists swiveled their counter stools toward Roz. “If they’re not coming back,” the mom asked, “do you suppose we could move to a table? Granny tends to slide off the bar stools.”

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64 ATLANTA “The Board of Directors has voted. Results have been tallied.

The new name of Zoo Atlanta’s Beastly Feast gala this year is drum roll please – “The Felony Feast.”

The zoo’s CEO, Olivia Foyle, swept the room with her eyes, enjoying the reactions, shock, disbelief, a frown or two and wry smiles among a few of the younger members of the board.

“What’s the problem, the name not shocking enough?” she asked. “How about Jailbird Jamboree? Killer Carnival? Gangster Gala?”

“Olivia, we get the point,” said a prune-faced man seated midway down the table. “But what is the big deal? Why can’t this Nikki Z woman breeze on stage, introduce the VIPs, thank everybody for their generous donations and then walk off the stage with a smile and a wave? Then the dance band will strike up something jazzy, everyone will drink and dance and any residual awkwardness will melt away.”

“Great scenario, Nathan, except for a few details. First, Nikki Z can’t breeze anywhere, can’t wave and can’t walk off the stage.

See, there’s the wheelchair she’ll have to use because of major damage to her ankle while being held hostage. Oh, another pesky detail. She’ll probably be wearing some stylish handcuffs.

Something to do with her having shot one of her captors five times at close range. See, Nathan, he’s dead now. Do you think our little dance band can make that awkward fact go away?

Maybe they have a rousing rendition of “Chain Gang” by Sam 327

Fatal Ambition

Cooke. Or something by Johnny Cash. That should do it. Any more questions, friends?”

The boardroom was quiet, but the woman taking board meeting minutes with Microsoft One Note raised her hand.

“Ms. Foyle, you referred to Sam Cooke. Was that Cook with an e or no e?”

“They’ll be buzzing about that for a week or two,” said Olivia as the board members hurried out, each eager to tweet the juicy highlights to a waiting universe. Liv, as some people called her, stood at an office window overlooking the zoo’s gorilla habitat. A young male was eating leaves in a patch of green plants, ignoring the human in the window above. Liv left the gorilla to enjoy his meal, turning away to grin at the woman sitting at the large oak table where she had recorded the meeting.

“How about this, Meg, why don’t we open the gates and let all the animals out of here? They could do what they want and we could go our own ways. The Beastly Feast could go on, but with more action than we have planned.”

Meg laughed, playing along. “One thing is for sure in your loony scenario, Olivia. The name of the party, Beastly Feast, would take on a whole new meaning.” *** Demand for tickets to the Beastly Feast rocketed as details of recent the events spread. Zoo Atlanta became the hottest cool place to be east of the Mississippi. Third world potentates jetted into Atlanta’s international airport. Some brought gifts, hoping for favors, legal or otherwise. Downtown and Buckhead hotels were rife with ticket scalpers. At noon on gala day, an anonymous zoo official told Global News Service the zoo could buy a new elephant for the going price of a table for ten at the Beastly Feast dinner. A single seat could pay for a red-lipped batfish or another exotic, rare creature. One monarch carried a live blob fish in a pressurized tank on board his private jet, intending to give it to Nikki Z as a gift. It was the official mascot of his obscure, oil-rich kingdom.

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Nikki Z’s name remained on the program as mistress of ceremonies, but zoo officials and Nikki’s doctors said the only way for her to take part would be briefly, in a wheelchair. Her battered ankle needed support and protection, and any major jolt or quick movement could cause permanent damage. Zoo insurance carriers were apoplectic.

“We must keep crowds way away from her,” one vice president said. “Medical staff must surround her wheelchair. No autographs, no reaching out to touch her.”

“Why not build a Popemobile for her, bullet proof, paparazzi proof?” another underwriter asked.

“Hell, we have perfectly good drones big enough for her and her ankle-related entourage,” someone suggested. “All of the above, then. It’s decided.”

News that Nikki Z would tough it out as emcee created what some cynics described as an orgasmic avalanche of media overreach. Usually sensational TV shows and Internet media of all kinds reached new levels of crazy.

MOST EXCITING CRIME OUTBURST SINCE MANSON FAMILY BEARS, HUMANS AND SOCIETY BATTLE FOR SURVIVAL REVENGE RULES TALES OF TORTURE MAD MOUNTAIN MEN BAD ANKLE RANKLES NIKKI Z WHAT IF NIKKI Z HAD USED AN UZI? Those were among the milder headlines, proclamations and research efforts lighting up media in all its forms. Previous low-end programming standards became quaint reminders of the olden days, the merely tacky age of broadcasting, including Maury, Geraldo, Jersey Shore, Toddlers and Tiaras, Hoarders and others.

Scores of talk radio hosts invaded Atlanta with their microphones, their press agents and their yearning to be Rush Limbaugh. One radio talker found discovered a fount of material for his program when he encountered John and Hilda Gray standing in their front yard next to the hostage house.

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“Damn you, John, take down this sign at once. You’re acting like an awkward pubescent.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

John’s makeshift sign was a Sharpie message scrawled on a cardboard box nailed to a tomato stake: WE LOVE YOU NIKKI Z! BEST NEIGHBOR EVER! “Hi there, sir, ma’am. Great sign. Would you like to be live on the radio with me to tell us about living next door to the nowfamous hostage house?”

“Absolutely not,” Hilda said, baring her teeth a bit.

“You mean now, young man?” John asked. Then answered, “Sure, why not?”

“Excellent. We’re in a commercial break right now. Stay with me for a minute.”

“I understand Mr., um, what’s your name?” John asked.

“Urban Shocker. And yes it’s my real name, not a radio name.

My great uncle was a famous baseball player a million years ago.

You?” Urban snapped a photo of the Nikki sign and posted it on Instagram. From there it was Facebooked and Tweeted everywhere. By noon, “We Love You Nikki Z” T-shirts by top designers from Alexander Wang to Zara were selling by the thousands online. Realtors were leaving phone offers to John and Hilda to buy the commercial rights to the “Best Neighbor Ever” slogan. One agency put up billboard ads on main roads near the hostage house: “If you lived here, you’d almost be at Nikki Z’s by now.” *** By then, Nikki Z was feeling better about her ankle injury.

Her mood had brightened as potent medication dimmed her pain. The doctors said in a media briefing that Nikki probably would be in the hospital at least two weeks with outpatient rehab to follow.

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Her primary surgeon used a white-board to illustrate the extent of the damage, which was considered major. The treatment: “multiple metal screws and ligament repair.” The prognosis: “We’ll do some skin grafts, too and we’ll have to open the plastic cast frequently to check the wounds and the healing progress. Questions?”

“This must be a traumatic time for Nikki Z. Has she any psychological damage or is she getting any treatment in that area?”

“You’ll need to ask people in that department. We have no information for you.”

“Docs, will Nikki Z walk normally again after this injury?”

“We don’t speculate on questions like that. One last question.”

“With all the pain, abuse and suffering Nikki Z endured this past week, is it possible she didn’t know right from wrong when she shot to death one of her captors?”

“My personal opinion is,” began the head surgeon, “any questions about knowing right from wrong should be aimed at you distinguished members of the media mob. Good day.”

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65 PIEDMONT HOSPITAL Jimmy awakened with a start to see Cassie’s mother staring at him from a corner of the waiting area. She smiled.

“You must be exhausted,” she said. “Can I get you some coffee or some tea, maybe? The nurse said Dr. Tomé will be out in a few minutes. And Randolph is in the men’s room.”

Cassie’s parents and Jimmy never went far from the waiting room in their several-hour vigil, but Jimmy convinced them to join him in the hospital cafeteria.

“We can be back here in five minutes, I promise,” he told them.

They had a long lunch, peppered by a running critique of the food and service by Cassie’s Dad. “Don’t mind Randolph,” Cassie’s mom told Jimmy. “Dad worries in his own way.”

Tears streaked Mr. Page’s cheek as he murmured his way through the cafeteria display. “When Cassie was a little girl she loved being in our café in Galveston. She’d pretend to take orders from the customers. We thought it was cute until she started asking our patrons for tips.”

Jimmy’s cell phone sounded. He was nervous about what Dr. Tomé might say, hope and fear fighting for space in his mind.

All he knew was that Cassie survived the six-plus hours of major surgery. He hugged Cassie’s parents, turned and shook hands with the doctor, leaned against a wall and waited.

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“Most important, Cassie is in stable condition in intensive care,” Dr. Tomé said. “She has damage to her lung and major damage to her esophagus. Those are serious, but we have considerable experience in these matters. One important thing in our, in Cassie’s, favor is that the two bullets which entered her body went through and through. That’s a good thing. I was successful with the esophagus and she should recover from that wound slowly, but surely. The lung injury is problematic, but we did what’s called a thoracoscopic lung resection, which means we removed a small section of the damaged lung. Overall, she probably will remain in critical condition for another couple of days. I know this is a lot to absorb, but she has a good chance to survive and get well. And she’s getting excellent care around the clock. Now, I know you have questions. Yes, Mrs. Page?”

“How long before we can hold her hand and talk with her?”

Cassie’s mom asked.

“A day or two, if all goes well,” Dr. Tomé replied. “As soon as possible. Knowing you are with her here will be a huge plus. But, please realize Cassie’s healing may seem glacially slow. Let me put it this way, a lesson I learned a few years ago from Doctor Mills, whom you met here earlier. He said in major cases like this, the patients don’t feel better day-by-day. They feel better week-by-week or month-by-month.”

“If all goes well, when might Cassie be able to leave the hospital?” Cassie’s dad asked.

“Every case is different, but generally in two or three weeks,” Dr. Tomé said. “She probably will need to go to a rehab facility for a couple of weeks. This is a long recovery period situation. It will take two to three months to feel fifty or sixty percent back to normal. And it’ll be six months to a year before she’s one hundred percent.”

“We know the first thing Cassie will ask when she’s able is, ‘What happened,’” Jimmy said. “What do we tell her?”

Noting Jimmy’s eyes were moist and his face was flushed, Dr. Tomé said, “Comfort is key, emotional and physical. You can tell her she was injured in the mountains and that she’s getting great care and her family is here and you’re here. For now, I wouldn’t 333

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get into any medical questions. Do your best to help her relax.

And, one more thing. At some point soon, Cassie’s going to ask about her friend RoAnn. Try to have a nurse in the room when you tell her. Don’t be shocked if she says it was all her fault, blaming herself for RoAnn’s death. Feeling guilt is normal, as in, ‘Why did she have to die while I’m still alive?’” *** “Excuse me, folks, I need a word with Dr. Tomé on another matter,” Jimmy said to Cassie’s mom and dad. “I’ll be right back.”

He caught up with Tomé in the hall outside the waiting room.

“Doc, you’re being a rock for the Pages and to me and I wanted you to know how much we all appreciate you and what you do.”

“Thanks, Detective, it’s thoughtful of you. I want to be careful with her folks, but you do understand that Cassie’s recovery is not a sure thing.”

“I know, or, I guess I know. Yes, I do know. I’ll be here as much as possible.” Jimmy turned away and tried to hide a sob with a half-hearted cough.

“Doc, I need some guidance from you. It’s unimportant with everything else, but…”

“Tell me, Detective, how can I help?”

Jimmy cleared his throat and stifled a sniffle.

“You know Bren Forrest of Global News Service, of course,” he said. “She’s involved with the impending Beastly Feast charity gala at the zoo. She is planning a tribute or some sort of salute to Cassie and something for Nikki Z. And the question is, would there be any way Cassie could take part?”

“Absolutely not,” Tomé said. “I can’t imagine how.”

Jimmy frowned, but she continued.

“Detective Hagan, I left out a few things in my conversation back there with the patient’s family, things you need to know about, but not necessarily share with anyone. First, do you know the term ‘flatline’?”

“Yeah, mostly from TV and movies. Why?” 334

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“It happened with Cassie. We don’t call it that, but the patient was in V-fib, or V-tac. They’re lethal arrhythmias and, using paddles, we shocked her out of them. I did cardiac massage, using my hands to make the heart beat by squeezing it, which allows fluid to continue to pump when the heart can’t do it on its own. In short, the care remains intensive. I don’t mean to be rude, but this is hard enough already on her parents. Don’t let others pressure you to do anything public. And, if anybody gets in your face about it, send them to me and I’ll prescribe a little something to keep them, shall we say, calm for a few days.”

“You’re right of course, Doc, but I have a thought. What if Cassie’s parents attend the Beastly Feast and thank everyone for their thoughts and prayers? You know, maybe a wave to the crowd?”

“It might boost their spirits,” Tomé said.

Jimmy assumed he would have trouble convincing Cassie’s parents to join him at the Beastly Feast or anywhere other than Piedmont Hospital as long as Cassie remained in critical or serious condition.

“If we could talk with Cassie right now she would urge you to go,” Jimmy told the Pages. “She’d want you to represent her to all the good people at the event who are pulling for her, and, of course, her many fans will want to send her good wishes.”

“What will we have to do, Jimmy?” Mrs. Page asked with a worried look. “We don’t want to make any kind of speech.”

“Absolutely not,” her husband agreed.

“No, of course not,” Jimmy said. “At the most, maybe a quick wave to the crowd. Then, if you want I’ll take you back to the hospital or to your hotel. How would that be?”

The Pages didn’t answer, but, instead, squeezed each other’s hands. A few seconds later, Mr. Page nodded.

Jimmy’s phone sounded and he walked down the hallway to answer.

“Bren here, Jimmy. You called my cell but didn’t leave a message. Anything wrong? I’m still here at the hospital. Aren’t you?

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“I’m down the hall from you out of the family’s earshot. I think Cassie’s mom and dad will join us at the Beastly Feast, at least for a while. Oh, and thanks for the table, by the way. It’s very generous.”

“It seats ten, Jimmy. What’s our count?”

“Starting with you, of course, Bren. Cassie’s parents make three. Daryl, Margaret, four, five. Cassie’s key doctors, Tomé and Mills, that’s six and seven. Sam Graham, the Naples detective and his guest, our informant Agatha, eight and nine. And me, ten.”

“Perfect. I spoke with DK at Channel 4 and they’ll have a tenseater too. Obviously Nikki Z won’t be with them. Not sure what they have in mind for her. But DK will be there, plus Otis, the station manager, and some other media types. Oh, I suggest we hire town cars for the evening, Jimmy, if that suits you.”

“Gee, Bren, let me think. Do I want to rent a car and driver and fight traffic and wait around for it when we leave? Or should I have a patrolman drive the Pages and the doctors in a police car with flashing lights and sirens on? What to do, what to do…”

“Hush up, Jimmy,” Bren said with a laugh. “Nobody likes a smart ass.”

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66 THE BEASTLY FEAST – ZOO ATLANTA The annual Beastly Feast was a popular, classy, black-tie evening at Zoo Atlanta for more than three decades. The unusual locale and the interesting collection of celebrities on hand, including humans, made the event a one-of-a-kind charitable gala in Atlanta. A steady stream of well-heeled and well-known people began the evening around sunset with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres while strolling through the zoo grounds. Some guests got as close as possible to the critters and later told their friends they “talked to the animals.”

Most attendees included the silent auction in their walkabouts.

Money talked at the auction tables, where guests placed bids on an array of goods and goodies - jewelry, antiques, luxury travel, VIP boxes at sporting events and concerts, plus other pleasures.

The guests were moving comfortably into the evening. A few were happy with the happy hour and reluctant to sit down to dinner, but they reconsidered when they saw the servers pouring excellent wines at the tables.

As dinner was served, a couple at one table made a point to praise the caterers for serving something other than mammal meat in the choice of entrees. Before long, the chatter at most of the tables touched on the dramatic news events in the previous week, the abduction and dramatic liberation of Nikki Z, the shooting death of her captor, Brock Preston IV, the capture of Rudy Decker, a man accused of murder and kidnapping, the 337

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shooting death of the Channel 4 producer, RoAnn Gantry, the shooting of Cassandra Page, the breakup of a bear-poaching ring in North Georgia and the rest.

Bren leaned close to Jimmy and said in his ear, “Are we sure we’ve invited every person we must have here tonight? Have we forgotten anybody involved in this crazy series of events. Maybe the forest ranger, Mr. Mabry? He got shot, right?”

Jimmy thought she was kidding.

“We invited the ranger,” Jimmy said, “and his wife, Irene, but they both said, ‘thanks but no thanks.’ Said they didn’t want any part of what Verne called, ‘the festivities.’”

“Anyone else, Jimmy? Bren asked “Bren, I didn’t want to stir the pot, but we did sort of shun a perpetrator or two in our hurry.”

“Oh, God, who?”

“Only kidding, Bren. But that Scary Gary guy was a charmer, slaughtering mama bears and their cubs. A sweetheart, he was.

He’d probably love an evening at the zoo. But we would have to strip-search him at the front gate. Then there’s his kid brother Earl. Loyal to a T….”

“I get it,” Bren said, smiling and waving for him to stop.

But did we intend to leave out the exotic animal veterinarian, Quintavious Vine?”

“Do you mean Dr. Q, the warthog whisperer?” Jimmy asked, laughing. “He probably broke about five laws, but he did sneak in and help Nikki. I heard he may get off with a fine and community service. And you’ll love this, Bren. He’s pitching a TV reality show with Zoo Atlanta as a sponsor. The title is, no kidding, Beastly DNA.” “Wait, I have the solution,” said Daryl. “Why don’t we throw together one more table, squeeze it in right here. We can call it the convict table and invite all the villains in this freaky spectacle.”

At a table nearby, Bren overheard a woman saying, “Did they say people are getting rich selling bears’ gall bladders?

Like, seriously? They cut it out of the mother bears and sell it?

Horrible. Disgusting too. I never…what? To Asia? How much?

For one little gall bladder? Thirty what? Where’s that place in 338

Don Farmer with Chris Curle

North Georgia? We could make a weekend of it. Yes, then have a great vacation in the Orient.”

“It’s not called the Orient anymore,” said another woman at the table. “It’s Asia. Orient is so offensive.”

The riff by the guitar player, repeated twice, and helped by the drummer’s roll, finally got people’s attention.

Zoo Atlanta’s Chief Executive Officer, Olivia Foyle, walked to center stage, her sleek, silver gray dress sparkling in the reflected light.

“Good evening and welcome to the Beastly Feast. We’re not finished counting yet, but this probably will be the largest turnout ever for this annual event. Thank you all for making it so.”

Applause was generous, heard throughout the zoo grounds and bouncing off homes on neighboring streets. Around town, TVs in quite a few bars and restaurants were tuned to Global News Service or Channel 4, which were carrying the coverage live.

“It’s my pleasure now,” Olivia Foyle said, “to introduce you to a great citizen of Atlanta, the owner of Global News Service, Ms. Bren Forrest.”

“Good evening and thank you for being here. Events of recent days have changed the nature of this wonderful event somewhat.

I want to bring you up to date.

“In a nutshell, these are among the most challenging times in the existence of GNS and I know it’s also true for a fine Atlanta TV station, Channel 4. What began as an informal partnership looking into some criminal activity in the North Georgia mountains has evolved into a news story of international scope and impact. And the worst part is that some of our loved ones, colleagues and friends have been injured and killed.”

Bren paused, cleared her throat and drank from a bottle of water. Silence hovered over the area.

“Some details we cannot reveal yet because of legal restraints, and some people are still under investigation. Nor can I mention everyone who has worked long and hard on these cases. But I want to thank personally some who deserve our thanks. First, Atlanta’s Police Department, led by Chief R.E.Lutz.”

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The chief stood as tall as he could and waved.” Applause was moderate.

“Atlanta Police Department’s Chief of Detectives, James Hagan.”

Jimmy stood quickly, smiled slightly then sat, applause rolling over him for almost two minutes.

Bren introduced Channel 4 executives, GNS video cameraman Daryl Evans and thanked the several law enforcement agencies involved. Then, after another drink of water, she leaned into her podium.

“Friends, a dear friend of mine, a woman known to millions of Americans as one of the best journalists in the nation, is fighting for her life at this hour, a great Atlantan and a wonderful woman, Cassandra Page, known to friends and loved ones as Cassie. As you know, Cassie was shot and seriously wounded by a gunman in the North Georgia Mountains. She was working on a story for GNS, a story connected to illegal poaching, possession and sale of animal parts by an insidious ring of international criminals.

And her story also was part of the investigation into the kidnapping of Nikki Zachos. Cassie remains in critical condition at Piedmont Hospital. Her parents have left her bedside to be here briefly tonight, to thank you for your support of her at this difficult time. May I present Cassie’s mother and father, Louise and Randolph Page.”

Chairs scraped and applause filled the scene. Cassie’s parents stood from their seats at the table, locked arms and turned around slowly. Louise waved tentatively and smiled. Randolph nodded and mouthed ‘thank you’ every few seconds. As the applause abated, Louise motioned for quiet. Her hand further in the air, she said softly, “Please pray for our daughter.” She then sat, wiped her eyes, leaned into Randolph and sobbed into his shoulder.

Bren let the crowd reset itself. Many of the women were crying and some men, too. The band was confused, not certain what mood it should support. The result was sort of a series of soft cords on guitar, with the drummer using the brush. Finally, fearing people might begin to shuffle away from their tables, Bren used the microphone to get their attention.

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“Friends, I know the Page family will long remember your heartfelt support tonight. And there is another person who wants to say thanks to you and to everyone who watches her regularly on Channel 4 - Nikki Z.” The applause began, then avalanched across the dining area as Nikki emerged from stage left in a burgundy- colored wheelchair, sitting up, her left leg straight out, her uninjured leg on the footrest of the chair. A metal pole extended up from the chair about six feet. On it was a pennant-type flag bearing the Channel 4 logo. A young nurse was pushing the chair, smiling, but not as much as Nikki Z. “Hello, Atlanta, I’m back,” Nikki said in a loud, clear voice.

“Did you miss me?”

The crowd roared. The zoo rocked. Nikki smiled and shouted, “And I missed you too.”

She waved to Joyce, the nurse pushing her chair, and they rolled closer to the edge of the stage, motioning for quiet.

“I’m going to be in this chair for a while, the doctor says, or hobbling around on crutches, but I will be back on the air, kicking butt and taking names.”

She knew how to stir a crowd and how to tone it down.

“Couple of things,” she said softly so the crowd would have to be quiet to hear her.

“Joyce,” she asked, pointing at the nurse with her, “can you get this chair down into the crowd? I want to go say grace with Cassie’s mom and dad.”

The nurse looked at Bren in the wings, who then looked at the two police officers on duty there. Within three minutes they had positioned Nikki Z’s wheelchair on the concrete floor. Joyce rolled her to the Pages. Nikki leaned out, gave each of them a hug, and put the wireless microphone to her lips.

“My friend Cassie needs our prayers these days and nights.

And my dear friend and colleague RoAnn should be in our hearts as well. She was killed by a gutless coward in those mountains. If I can help it, he’ll never kill again unless it’s himself and, in that case, I’d gladly see to it he does a good job.”

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The crowd didn’t know what to make of that, but cheers drowned out the few jeers in the end.

“I have to go, folks, but I’ll see you on TV, maybe in a week or less,” Nikki concluded.

“We love you Nikki Z,” a man’s voice shouted. “And where’s your big old sable coat gone to?”

“Funny you should ask, sir. In about thirty minutes, we will auction off my cherished sable to the highest bidder, out front in the courtyard area. The proceeds will go to Zoo Atlanta, to set up the RoAnn Gantry Project. We’ll work for conservation and protection of animals in the wild and in great zoos like this one. And, the official motto of this project, a tribute to my best friend, RoAnn, is: ‘Our Animal Partners - Don’t Wear Them, Share Them.’”

Nikki sat up taller in the wheelchair and shouted into the microphone, “Thank you, Atlanta. Thank you, zoo. Thank you and you and all y’all.”

She slumped back into the wheelchair. The nurse rolled Nikki to the doorway and around back to a staging area where the Piedmont van was waiting to take her back to the hospital.

“How are you feeling, Nikki?” the nurse asked.

“I need some sleep, Joyce. Doing all these good deeds is exhausting.”

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67 CASSIE’S ROOM, PIEDMONT HOSPITAL SEVERAL DAYS LATER Jimmy was nervous, twitchy-nervous, like an adolescent on his first date.

Cassie will think I’m a dweeb. Dweeb? I haven’t used that word since the last time I was this nervous. I’m the chief of detectives and I’m as shaky as a rookie cop in a bad neighborhood.

The door to Cassie’s hospital room was ajar. Jimmy knocked twice, paused, and went in. Cassie was dozing, but awakened at the sound of the door closing.

“Hi, Copper,” she said softly, a smile peeking across several layers of medical dressings, bed linens, an oxygen tube and a bulky, gray cable leading to a nurse call button.

Cassie had recognized Jimmy immediately. He almost cried when she called him Copper.

Jimmy went to her bed, took the hand not attached to an IV and kissed her fingertips.

“I have never been happier to see another human being than I am right now,” he said.

“Wow, some compliment,” she replied. “Even happier than when Chief Lutz calls?”

“Funny thing about that. He has not spoken to me since I was here the day of your surgery. He wanted me with him at a news conference at the cop shop, but I declined and came here. He’s pissed.”

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“Are you trying to lose your job on purpose?” She smiled again and he thrilled to see it.

“It’s nothing. Tell me how you feel. They say you tire easily and told me not to stay long.”

“Honestly, I don’t feel much. I’m bandaged up and stitched up and mostly doped up. I’m in a fog. What’s your name again, mister?” Another faint smile.

“Maybe I should let you rest now.”

“In a minute, Jimmy. First, tell me everything. I know about RoAnn and it makes me sick. She was one of a kind.”

Jimmy nodded and leaned a little closer.

“About Nikki Z’s kidnapping. She’s free now, long story. The mastermind is Rudy Decker, the guy who murdered Hunter, the TV talent coach from Florida. He also was behind the bear poaching business you and RoAnn were chasing in North Georgia. He’s in custody. A girlfriend, one of the kidnappers, turned him in. He has so many federal and state charges pending, the crime rate may go down when he goes up the river.”

“Goes where?”

“Up the river. An expression. It means prison.”

“I know. I’m a crime reporter, remember? What about Daryl?”

“He’s wonderful, gutsy too. Bren is making him a producer and…”

“She better not move him out of my department,” Cassie said.

“Daryl and I are a team, period.”

Again, Cassie grew animated, her eyes brighter, her voice a little stronger.

“How about the forest ranger, Mabry, I think? Was he shot?

And what about the guy who shot RoAnn and me?”

“Cassie, don’t you want to rest now? We can do this later, really.”

“In a minute. Then it’ll be my turn to share.”

“Ranger Mabry is fine. When RoAnn fired her pistol, a round nicked the ranger’s ear, but it will heal. He’s up and around. The guy who shot you and RoAnn is Earl Shanklin, the brother of Gary, who owns the Gary-Scary store. In the shooting, Earl hit you twice and RoAnn once. She died on the spot. That’s enough for now, Cass, okay? You need to rest.”

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“Sure, Copper,” Cassie said, taking Jimmy’s hand. “Come closer. Yeah, that’s better. Watch out for the IV line and the oxygen. A couple of things to tell you, Jimmy. First, I love you and I want to restart our lives together.”

“Me too, Cassie. I was scared you might leave me. I, I’m sorry,” he said, sniffling. “Now I should go, sweetheart. I…” “I said a couple of things, Jimmy.”

“What’s the other thing?”

“The doctors did a bunch of tests on me while I was sedated.”

“That’s good, I guess,” Jimmy said, hesitantly. “It is good, right?”

“I think so. I think so.”

“What? What’s the prob…”

“We’re pregnant. I mean, I’m pregnant. Can you believe it, Jimmy? We’re going to have…I mean if…oh Jimmy…I don’t know, what if…”

“Cassie, take it easy, one step at a time.”

Jimmy sounded more confident than he felt. Tears welled up in his eyes, relieved Cassie had survived the surgery. But his face revealed anxiety, insecurity, about the moment, about tomorrow and their foggy future.

The End

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Acknowledgment Many people deserve our thanks for their contributions to the creation of Fatal Ambition. Here are a few.

Family—Claudia Curle for her incisive observations on character behavior. Laurie Farmer Thannisch for helping keep the dialogue real and the plot plausible. Justin Farmer for keeping us tuned to the swirling changes in the world of TV news. Judy Farmer for her educator’s persistence on detail and overall readability.

Friends, experts, professional colleagues—William Bond, Barbara Klaus, Gail Evans, Mary Zachrich, Kathryn Hunt, Robin and Sharon Horsman, Carolyn Brown, Roger Reinke, Phil and Pat Jones, Dr. Africa Wallace, Dr. Robert Klaus, Diana Pillow, Vicki Tracy, Keith and Barb Dameron, Judy Barney, Nick Campo, Bill McMullan, Kathy (Q) Quinlan, Karna Small Bodman, Dave Elliott. Barnes & Noble, Books & Company, Oconomowoc WI, Norris Home Furnishings, Naples FL, Eagle Eye Book Shop, Decatur GA, FoxTale Book Shoppe, Woodstock GA, Sunshine Booksellers, Marco Island FL.

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About the Authors Don Farmer and Chris Curle have been in the news business—television, radio and print—for a combined total of ninety-nine years, from the headline events and back rooms of world politics to the front lines of wars and social revolutions.

They met in a TV newsroom in Houston, Texas. She was a reporter/anchor at KTRK-TV, the ABC station there. Don was there on assignment in his role as southern bureau chief for ABC News, based in Atlanta.

They married two years later, and immediately moved to London, where Don was a key correspondent in the network’s primary European bureau. They also lived for several years in Germany, where Don was ABC’s bureau chief and correspondent.

During this period, Chris covered international news for radio and print in Europe, Asia and the Middle East.

Don’s coverage abroad sent him to war and civil strife in Europe, the Middle East, Latin America and Asia, including Vietnam and Cambodia. He also covered the civil rights movement in the US, including Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s historic movement, Dr. King’s assassination and the violent aftermath in several American cities. He covered the unsuccessful presidential campaigns of several men named George—Wallace, McGovern and Romney—and one very successful George, the forty-first president.

For five years, Don covered the US House of Representatives and the US Senate as a congressional correspondent for ABC News.

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When Ted Turner created CNN, he hired Chris and Don to be among that all-news network’s “pioneer” on-air news anchors.

During their two-hour, live Take Two daily program on CNN, they interviewed thousands of interesting people, many of whom are world famous.

Some of their more memorable conversations were with presidents, prime ministers, first ladies, generals, ambassadors, potentates and celebrities in the worlds of sports, Hollywood and Broadway.

One of Don’s favorite assignments was his conversation with The Beatles, all four of them, after John Lennon had created a firestorm by remarking in 1966 that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus.

Chris’s career before CNN included anchoring newscasts and a live magazine-format show on the ABC TV station in Washington DC, interviewing and reporting on the capital’s movers and shakers.

Don and Chris also anchored the news for the ABC TV station in Atlanta, WSB-TV, where their coverage included visits to such interesting places as Iceland, Honduras, Saudi Arabia, the Galapagos Islands, Africa and the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Don is the co-author of Roomies: Tales From the Worlds of TV News and Sports, a book he wrote with his lifelong friend, the late, legendary sportscaster, Skip Caray.

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“TV news veterans Don Farmer and Chris Curle are back with a thrilling story of greed, jealousy and murder. Police and reporters chase kidnappers and bear poachers as they follow the deadly mistakes of flawed men and vengeful women.”

—CLARK HOWARD Nationally syndicated radio talk show host

“Fatal Ambition is another edge-of-your-seat thriller by awardwinning authors Don Farmer and Chris Curle, whose intimate knowledge of TV news is on full display.”

—BERT RUDMAN News Director Sinclair Broadcast Group, Eugene OR

“Don Farmer has written a thoroughly engrossing story. As a veteran newsman and TV anchor, Farmer captures the strong personalities of the newsroom and the “can’t look away” drama of a riveting news story. Great characters, strong women, a vile villain and a plot that keeps you turning pages.”

—REBECCA CHASE WILLIAMS

FATAL AMBITION

Nikki Z is a love-her-or-hate-her news anchor on Atlanta TV. Cassie Page is an African-American crime reporter for a cable news giant. Her lover is Jimmy Hagan, an Irish-American police detective. Rudy Decker is a flashy playboy, a user and abuser of women, getting rich selling the body parts of black bears. Human life is cheap, too. A sexy TV talent coach plays with fire while Nikki Z falls victim Rudy’s fatal ambition. But, Rudy’s bloody schemes are threatened by Cassie and Jimmy and by wronged women set on revenge.

Former ABC News Correspondent & Former Mayor of Brookhaven GA

Don Farmer and Chris Curle are veteran journalists who have interviewed thousands of people, some of the best in the world and some of the worst, in some of the best places on the planet and some of the most dangerous.

In eighty-one countries on six continents, they covered wars and peace talks, historic figures from presidents to the Beatles, heroes and villains.

Their experience in major media includes ABC News, CNN and network TV stations in Washington DC, Atlanta, Philadelphia and Houston.

The TV news business also is the backdrop of their first novel, Deadly News.

“Don Farmer again weaves an insider’s knowledge of television news through an action-packed tale about bad men, feisty women and ambitions that turn deadly.”

—NEAL BOORTZ Best-selling author and former national talk show host