The Abbey (31 page)

Frank’s Pawn and Gift smelled like stale cigarettes and gun oil. Ostensibly, it was a standard pawn shop, but in actuality, it was more like a gun shop specializing in pawned firearms. I skipped the aisles of cheap, Chinese–made handcuffs and throwing stars and walked to the back. There were probably two or three hundred rifles hanging from racks along the rear wall and a long counter in front prominently displaying ammunition and handguns.

A buzzer beeped when I got near the counter, and a fat guy with a graying goatee walked from behind a curtain amid the firearms. I hadn’t met him in person before, but the description I had heard from one of my old confidential informants fit. I was being helped by Frank himself.

“What can I get for you?” he asked.

“You’re Frank, aren’t you?” I asked, putting out my hand. He shook it and nodded. “Joey Walls tells me you’ve got a good selection.”

Frank smiled and nodded. Joey was a low–level pot dealer who worked one of the college campuses. He was more of a slacker than a hardened criminal, but he schmoozed better than any used car salesman I’ve ever seen. Because of that, he knew a lot of people and heard a lot of things, so we let him deal a little in exchange for information. I hadn’t talked to him in a few years, so I hoped his name still had some street cred.

“Joey’s a good boy. Heard he’s in school now, studying business or something. You see him, tell him we could use someone like him around here.”

I nodded.

“I’ll do that,” I said, leaning forward on the counter. “I’m here because I need a handgun. Maybe a nine–millimeter semiautomatic.”

“We can do business,” said Frank, bending down and unlocking the display. He reached in and pulled out a rack holding four firearms. Three were too small and flashy for my needs, while the fourth was a large, steel monstrosity with a Slavic–sounding manufacturer printed on the barrel.

I raised my eyebrows.

“I’m looking for something for self–defense, not a rap video.”

Frank snickered.

“Most people don’t know the difference. What do you have in mind?”

“Something concealable with stopping power.”

“I’ve got what you need.”

Frank bent down again and this time picked up a slim aluminum case about twelve inches on a side. The weapon it held was flat black and small. I picked it up. It was a little heavy for its size, but it felt nice. I looked at Frank for information.

“It’s a forty–caliber Beretta 9000 with a ten–round magazine. If you want stopping power with a small footprint, that’ll do you. New in box. Six hundred.”

I nodded. That was more than I wanted to spend, but the weapon fit my hand well. It’d work.

“I’ll take it. Give me fifty jacketed hollow–point rounds for this. And while I’m here, give me fifty rounds of thirty–eight caliber jacketed hollow points and a holster that will clip on my belt.”

“You want a shotgun while you’re at it? Gave one to my Mom for Christmas, and she says she sleeps a lot better at night. I’ll make you a deal for the whole thing.”

I looked at the rack behind him, considering. A good shotgun has a lot of merits, but subtlety isn’t one of them. If I went in with one of those, Hannah and Megan would be dead before I got a shot off. I shook my head no, so Frank began to search for my ammunition.

“I’m going to need to see three forms of ID for these,” he said, reaching into boxes beneath the counters. He found what he needed quickly and dropped two cases of Remington ammunition on the counter beside the aluminum case housing the Beretta. “You can hunt for a holster that’ll fit you on the shelves, and while you do that, I’ll get the paperwork started.”

“I hoped we could do this one between the two of us. Joey told me you might be willing to help a guy out.”

Frank squinted at me and crossed his arms.

“We can do a private sale, but it’s gonna cost you. You buy from my business, and you get the price on the tag. You buy from me personally, and then we’ve got to talk. Nine–hundred for the Beretta and ammo, and I’ll give you whatever holster you want.”

“Seven for everything.”

“This ain’t a negotiation. You want this firearm, you’ll pay my price. Nine–hundred.”

I thought about taking out my badge and laying it on the counter, but decided against it. That’d hurt my old CI more than anything else. I took my credit card out of my wallet and paid the guy. I was out of the store in under an hour and back in my house twenty minutes after that. Karen hadn’t called yet, which didn’t surprise me. If she were smart, she wouldn’t call until the last minute so I wouldn’t have time to set up an ambush. I had an idea about getting around that, but I had more pressing things to do for the moment.

I microwaved three egg and cheese English muffins from a box in the back of our freezer. They were probably older than my daughter, but at least they kept my stomach from rumbling. When I finished those, I went to my car and grabbed Robbie’s revolver from the evidence kit in my trunk. I held it straight in front of me and checked the alignment of the chamber and barrel. It was a good bit out of whack, but it was serviceable.

I took the gun to my workbench in the garage. When I worked a beat, my backup weapon was always a revolver. It could only hold six rounds, but it was as reliable as any firearm could be. I disassembled Robbie’s firearm; thankfully, it came apart just like my old revolver. I spent the next twenty minutes cleaning its chamber and barrel of residual gunk before oiling the moving parts heavily and putting it back together straight and true. It wasn’t the best weapon I had ever possessed, but the parts were free of rust, and it was in fair shape mechanically. It’d fire, I hoped.

I went back inside and strapped the revolver to my ankle and the Beretta to my waist. Physically, I was as ready to go as I’d ever be. Now I needed some intel.

The roads in central Indiana take a beating every winter, so it’s not uncommon to find potholes six inches deep and several feet across. Generally, the city does a good job of patching them up, but there are neighborhoods where even the toughest road crews won’t venture. That was going to come in handy. After twenty–five minutes of driving, I pulled to the curb beside Three Little Pigs Ammo and Supply and reversed so my left, rear wheel dipped into a pothole bigger than the inflatable kiddie pool I bought for my daughter a few months earlier. The rear of my car dipped about six inches, hopefully making it look like the tire was flat. With the front end smashed, it fit into the neighborhood well.

I got out of the car and leaned against it while I searched through my cell–phone’s memory for Olivia’s number. She answered quickly, but I spoke before she could say anything.

“It’s Ash. I need to see you. Can you meet me in The Park?”

“Uhm–”

“It’s an emergency,” I said, interrupting. “Please.”

She was silent for a moment.

“Okay. Give me forty–five minutes.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you then.”

I hung up before she could respond. It was late afternoon, so the stores were still open, and I could hear conversations through windows and doors propped open by rocks and sticks. A group of little girls drew flowers on the sidewalk in front of a barbershop. I said their drawings were pretty as I walked by, so they smiled and waved.

The Park itself wasn’t as busy as the surrounding neighborhood. Two kids played on a swing set, while four teenagers stood near the picnic tables in the center, passing something around. I didn’t see any hookers, but I didn’t look very hard, either. The teenagers scattered as soon as I came close, probably thinking I was a cop. One tossed a rainbow–colored glass pipe onto the ground while another threw a Ziploc bag into the bushes. Those kids could probably get another bong or crack pipe as easily as I could fill up my gas tank, but I picked up their pipe anyway and threw it into an open garbage can, breaking it against a bottle of Boones Farm strawberry wine. The bag was empty except for a few seeds. Cheap marijuana; at least it wasn’t heroin. I threw it in the same garbage can I had thrown the pipe and then sat on the picnic tables to wait.

Olivia had said forty–five minutes, but it only took her twenty. She drove by twice, presumably looking for a parking spot. I pulled my Beretta from its holster and held it behind me as she approached. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a navy blue top that was ruffled around the chest. I wasn’t pleased with her at the moment, but there was no denying she looked good. She nodded at me when she got close enough. I couldn’t see a weapon on her, so if she had one, it was in her purse.

“Hey, Ash. What’s your emergency?”

I took my arm from behind my back and leaned forward with my firearm resting on my knees. Olivia’s back went straight and she breathed in.

“We need to talk, Olivia.”

“Okay,” she said, putting her hands in front of her and shrugging her purse off her shoulder. “Let me get something from my purse first.”

I shifted so the muzzle of my firearm pointed at her midsection. My thumb slipped from the grip to the barrel, disengaging the safety with an audible click.

“I’d drop that if I were you.”

Olivia stayed still and looked around, assessing the situation. Her posture was rigid.

“What do you want, Ash?”

“I want you to drop the purse.”

She looked around for a moment, but the teenagers and kids were gone. We were alone. She dropped her purse and tilted her head to the side.

“What now?” she asked.

“I want to talk about why you sold out my family and how you can help me get them back.”

Olivia’s eyes never left mine. She shook her head.

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

“Really?” I asked, leaning back. I reached into my jacket’s inside pocket with my free hand and pulled out my cell phone. I threw it at her. “Check the last text message.”

“I don’t know–”

“Do it.”

Olivia was quicker with the phone than I was. After about a minute, the color ran from her face, and her shoulders dropped. She looked up and swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“Bullshit. Maybe ten people know my cell number, and fewer than that knew where Hannah and Megan were. You’re the only person on both lists.”

Olivia put her hands up in front of her and stepped towards me.

“Put the gun down,” she said. “We’ll talk about this and figure it out together.”

I pulled my Beretta’s slide back, chambering a round. Olivia stopped moving.

“You’re not going to shoot me with people watching.”

“You think witnesses matter in this neighborhood?”

Olivia took a step back. Her lower lip trembled.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Where is my family being held?”

“I never would have said anything if I thought she was going to hurt your family,” said Olivia, shaking her head. Her face was white. “She told me she was going to scare them to get you off the case. That’s all.”

“Where are they?”

Olivia licked her lips and swallowed.

“Karen owns a refrigerated warehouse north of town. Your family’s probably there.”

“How do I get there?”

The directions were complicated, so I had her repeat them twice so I could memorize them.

“How many men will she have with her?”

“She trusts three. If this is important to her, they’ll be there. There are too many for you to take on your own. I’ll go with you if you want.”

“I’ve had enough of your help on this case,” I said. “What’d she put in me last night?”

“Ketamine and
GHB
. It’s clean. They don’t put anything extra in it. That’s why it sells so well.”

“What else?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I stared at her for a few moments, but Olivia didn’t blink.

“If I see you at this warehouse, I’ll shoot you on sight.”

Olivia nodded and knelt in front of me, almost pleading.

“I tried to keep you out of this. I really did. I even asked Karen not to kill you. That’s why you’re still alive. I’m sorry.”

The textured grip of my firearm bit into my hand as I squeezed. I shook my head.

“You came to Megan’s birthday parties,” I said. “We had you over for Thanksgiving. I hope whatever Karen paid you was worth it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t think it would come to this.”

“You have until ten tomorrow morning to turn yourself over to the police,” I said, holstering my firearm. I kept the safety disengaged in case I had to pull it quickly. “If you don’t, I’ll give your name to Konstantin Bukoholov and tell him you know where Karen Rea keeps her main stash.”

“He’ll kill me. You know that.”

“Eventually. He’ll torture you to get the location first. And if my family is hurt tonight, start running. Consider this your head start.”

I stood and walked away. Olivia called after me and asked me to stay so we could talk things through, but I had already said everything I had to say.

When I got back to the car, I called IMPD’s dispatcher. I didn’t know Bowers well enough to have his personal cell phone number, so I had the dispatcher send him a message for me. I told him I had plugged one of the department’s leaks and asked him to give me a call if he wanted to hear more. Evidently he did because he called me back right away. I repeated what Olivia had said, and we spent the next ten minutes working out a plan. I gave it fifty–fifty odds; Bowers thought that was generous.

He was probably right.

My eyes popped open and I jumped as my cell phone rang. The world was dark and blurry. I blinked and rubbed my eyes as the dream world faded and reality came into focus. I was in my living room, and it was dark except for my television. The evening news was on, so it was sometime after ten. I coughed to clear my throat and snatched the phone from the coffee table.

“I’m here,” I said, rubbing my face to get the blood flowing. The drugs must have been wearing off because I wasn’t dizzy as I sat up.

“I thought you weren’t going to pick up,” said Karen. “That would have been disappointing.”

“I’m sure it would have been. Where’s my family?”