Stolen Lives: A Detective Mystery Series SuperBoxset (8 page)

Lou approached her, with a somber and sympathetic expression. He was about the only one in the department she trusted anymore. “We understand. But this is too much for one person to go through alone. Let us help you. Let us… do our jobs.”

Miriam’s looked up at him. “Thank you.” She then excused herself from the room, saying that she had to use the bathroom.

“Everything is going to be fine,” Porter said as Miriam opened his office door, causing her to pause.

“I know…” she said, with her back still turned to him.

Porter looked at his wrist watch. “Shit. I have a press conference in five minutes.” He shot up from his chair as she walked out into the crowded hall and toward the holding rooms.

Miriam walked past several uniformed police officers huddled together, shaking their heads and still complaining about the news of the Andersons’ release. No one noticed her, and she only recognized a few faces. Much, it seemed, had changed since she left the force the year prior. There were a lot of new officers, but much of the old guard still ran the place.

She couldn’t help but miss being a cop. It was a part of who she was. Her father, Manuel, was a retired police chief. Her mother, Elizabeth, was a corrections counselor. Together, they’d had high expectations of their only child.

Fresh out of high school, she joined the Air Force—where she met Freddy. Four years later, they moved to Washington, D.C. She went to school to study criminal justice. Freddy had his sights set on a law degree—but never finished school. The “pressure” made him drink. And his drinking changed everything. Miriam earned her bachelor’s and enrolled in the police academy while Freddy got a county job of his own as a bus driver.

By twenty-six, Miriam was a newly sworn-in deputy, following in her father’s footsteps. She got pregnant with Ana and took some time off. By Ana’s first birthday, they had moved to Miami—a fresh start as a family.

The exact circumstances that brought Miriam to Palm Dale were blurry. The relocation followed her divorce after five years of marriage. She enlisted with the Lee County Police Department as a sergeant and continued her career in law enforcement. Everything had changed, however, on the fateful day her partner was shot during a routine traffic stop. She always blamed herself, and had resigned as a result. Now the shooter was in her grasp. Phillip Anderson would see justice. Deputy Lang deserved that much.

She walked past the third holding room, where Anderson’s lawyer, Kershner, was standing and talking with Boone and Judith. In mid-conversation, both parents looked up as if sensing her—their feelings masked behind two wrinkled and emotionless faces. What they thought of her, Miriam didn’t know or care.

The Anderson boys exited their holding rooms with officers on each side. They were big men with farmer’s tans and varying degrees of reddish, dirty-blond facial hair. Greg and Walter were still wearing their oil-stained mechanic jumpsuits. Jake, the youngest of the three, wore a red flannel jacket and torn jeans. Criminal masterminds they weren’t, but Miriam believed there to be much more to them than brutish appearances.

She continued toward the restroom farther down the hall as the entire family paused to watch her. Her eyes remained forward, though she wanted them to see her. Phillip had to know that she was alone. It was only then that he seemed to call her.

“Ms. Castillo!” an FBI man called out.

With her purse around her shoulder, Miriam walked straight into the restroom without turning around. Inside, it looked clean and unoccupied. She took her phone out and went to the corner stall, closing the door. She held the screen up. It stared back at her, displaying two missed calls from her parents and one from her boss at East Coast Trucking. They’d have to wait.

She leaned against the wall and held the phone in both hands. “Come on…” she said, staring down.

The phone suddenly rang, displaying an unlisted number. “Yes. Hello?” she said, her voice wavering.

“You’re alone. Good,”
a voice said, less-distorted than before.

Miriam got to the point. “They’re releasing your relatives. I did my part, now let me speak to Ana.”

“Hold on, now. Just one minute—”

“We had a deal!” she said.

“Enough!”
he barked, sounding frustrated.

Miriam couldn’t help herself. She was tired of the games.

“I’ll let you speak to Ana as soon as we’re on the same page.”

“We are,” she said. “I told the FBI that releasing your relatives was the only way to handle this. Whatever else you say is between only the two of us.”

There was a long pause on the other end.

“Gee, Miriam,”
he replied.
“I’m starting to take comfort in our little talks.”

His words made her stomach tighten in knots. “Can I trust that you won’t hurt my daughter?”

“Your daughter is fine. I mean, I don’t think she likes me all too much, but she’s fine.”

“What… what did you do to her?” she asked in a panicked tone.

“Nothing yet. I’m going to give you the girl, just as promised. I got some guys, and they’re going to transport her to another location.”

Miriam gripped the phone in her shaking hand. “You said that I could talk to her. I need to talk to her. Don’t you understand?”

He moved on, ignoring her demands.
“Write this address down: One Fifty-Fourth Street, North Homestead, Florida.”

She searched frantically through her purse and found a pen, scribbling the address on her hand as fast as she could.

“It’s a bit of a drive from where you’re at, so I’d get a move on if you plan to be there before nightfall.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Homestead, in Miami-Dade County, was at least a three-hour drive from Palm Dale. It was already five o’clock.

“Why so far away?” she asked.

“Because. That’s why. Stop trying to pry into my business,”
he snapped.

“Is this a house? A building?”

“It used to be a place called The Plaza. A theater that shut down years ago.”

“Please, Mr. Anderson. Can’t you just drop her off at the police station? I don’t want her in some abandoned—”

Phillip cut her off.
“Hey, you did me a lot of damage. You ruined my business, tarnished my family’s name, and sent me on the run. You want your daughter, you’re gonna have to work for it.”

She scanned the address scribbled on her hand. Was he hiding in Homestead? The FBI would certainly like to know. She had the address. The question was, what to do with it? Whatever the answers, she wasn’t going to get them over the phone.

“I understand,” she said, not pressing him further.

“It’s simple,”
he continued.
“You make the drive, get your daughter, and go home. Just consider yourself lucky that I’m not doing to her what I did to your ex.”

Miriam covered her mouth and held back her tears, silently sobbing.

“And one more thing—travel alone. You’re not to tell anyone. Not a soul. I’ve got eyes everywhere, Miriam. Don’t fuck with me.”

“Okay,” she said, hanging up. She lowered the phone and cried into her cupped hands—tears of grief or joy, she couldn’t tell the difference.

***

Captain Porter approached the podium inside the conference hall with a dozen cameras and spotlights on him. He was flanked on both sides by other officers, including the chief of police, and was there to explain to an outraged community why the police department was letting a potential crime family back onto the streets.

Aside from due process, he had to explain, to the best of his abilities, that the Andersons would be under close surveillance until the investigation was complete. Tables and chairs had been cleared from the room, and over thirty members of the press were packed inside. To some in the media, it was nothing more than damage control.

Snatcher Escapes Again! Crime Family Freed! County PD Blunders Six-Year Hunt for Child Predator
—were just a few of the most recent Internet banner headlines.

Lee County PD was in the midst of losing the narrative on the case. Captain Porter was trotted out to stand before the flashing cameras to try to change that. He wore his dress-blue police uniform, complete with pins and badges, and stared into the cameras with all the confidence he could muster.

Chief Walker stood quietly to the side, and gave a knowing nod to Porter before he reached the podium.
“Don’t screw this up,”
he mouthed.

Porter stood directly behind the microphones on his podium and looked down at his prepared statements. He brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat, looking up at the cameras.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here tonight. There have been some developments that we will release in due time. The Lee County Police Department takes full responsibility for the way this case has been, and will continue to be, conducted. As it stands now, we are in pursuit of our number-one suspect, Phillip Anderson, owner and operator of Anderson Auto Salvage. He has been on the run following the discovery of an underground bunker on one of his properties in the Palm Dale area. Investigators believe this to be the place he imprisoned his six young victims, children he abducted with the possible aid of a local mechanic, Ray Gowdy, who is currently in custody.”

Those listening remained quiet, hungry for information, and eager for a new headline. The police officers behind Porter stared ahead—some pensive, others stoic. It was Chief Walker’s idea to have them standing behind Porter as a show of unity. Porter knew, however, that they wouldn’t be able to shield him from the barrage of questions that were to come his way after his prepared statement.

***

Greg Anderson, the third eldest son, rode home in the back of an unmarked police car with the window down, taking in the nice breeze. Whatever his brother, Phillip, did had paid off. He was a free man. Though Greg knew that the damage done to their family name was irreversible.

His wife, Barbara, worked as a teacher’s aide for the school district. Would she have to quit her job? What was to become of the salvage yard? The police and feds had taken it over and set up camp. Everything was different, all because of their older brother. A man who had singlehandedly sunk their family.

Greg should have seen it coming. He should have stood up to Phil when he had the chance. But they were all responsible in some way. When it came to drugs, gambling, and racketeering, no one in the family had any trouble taking the money. They were all culpable.

Phil, however, had taken it too far. The screwed-up bastard had to go after children. Greg always suspected that their parents covered for Phil. They could have stopped him. They should have. He scratched his beard in contemplation as Sergeant Lutz, his escort, kept his eyes on the road. Throughout the drive, they had said little to each other. Suddenly, however, something seemed terribly wrong.

“Two-two-four, this is Officer Lutz. We’ve got a situation here with some local residents. Requesting immediate backup…”

“What the hell?” the shaved-headed Lutz said.

Greg squinted through the windshield. There was a line of cars blocking the rural road ahead. In front of the cars were at least thirty people, standing together, armed with weapons—some with baseball bats and crowbars, others with shotguns and automatics. Lutz was as perplexed as his passenger. He slowed down and turned his dashboard lights on, reminding them that the unmarked Dodge Charger approaching them was police. They didn’t seem to care.

“Don’t slow down,” Greg said.

The officer ignored him, further decreasing his speed. The closer they got, the more Greg could see that the roadblock was deliberate. Lutz unclipped his radio mic from the dashboard.

“Two-two-four, this is Sergeant Lutz. Looks like we’ve got a situation here off old Route 44. Requesting backup.”

Nervous, Greg leaned back and gripped his seat. He tried the door, but it was locked. “Hey. Hey, Sergeant Lutz!”

“Quiet down back there,” Lutz said, holding the mic.

“This is two-two-four, what’s your situation?”
a voice asked over the radio.

The locals were out in full force—both men and women of all ages. They looked angry and riled up. An uproar began among the crowd once the Dodge got closer, people yelling, whistling and brandishing their weapons.

“Pedestrians intentionally blocking the road,” Lutz responded. “Failure to heed command to clear.” Though the command had yet to be given.

“Turn around!” Greg demanded.

Lutz slowed to a stop a fifty feet from the barricade. The mob immediately moved toward them, their eyes widened with hatred and rage.

“Are you out of your mind? Turn the fuck around!” Greg shouted.

“Shut up!” Lutz said, turning his head. He then spoke into his mic. “They’re surrounding the vehicle. We’re outnumbered here. Requesting immediate back-up.”

A rock smashed across the windshield, startling both passengers. The mob encircled the car, hitting the back and side windows with baseball bats, smashing out headlights, taillights, and side windows. Lutz panicked, and looked around all sides of the vehicle while unfastening his pistol from its side holster.

Greg crouched down in the back, covering his face with his arms. “I told you to back up and get us the hell out of here!”

The officer radioed in for back-up again, shifted the car into reverse, and drove backward, though the assaults kept coming. The windows on all sides were cracked and spider-webbed. The front windshield was nearly ready to let go. Some men moved out of the way behind the car, but others jumped on the hood and started to go to town on the rear window.

Greg slumped further down into his seat as the relentless pummeling of the windows continued. He looked up to see Lutz pointing his gun toward the back window, where two large men were riding the trunk.

A tire iron smashed into the windshield. Lutz swerved to the left and slid into a side railing. His head whipped hard against his window. The gun flew out of his hand and into the back seat. Glass from the windshield and rear window exploded into shards. For a moment, everything was still and quiet.