The waitress had just taken Greg’s order when his phone vibrated against his side. He glanced at the readout and didn’t recognize the number. He decided to let the call go to voice mail. He’d not even taken a drink of his iced tea when the phone vibrated again. He glanced down and saw the same number. As he debated answering, the waitress appeared with his house salad, and the call was forgotten.
For almost twenty seconds. Then as he swallowed a mouthful of salad, the telltale vibration began again.
When he saw the same number, he frowned. “I’d better take this, Josh,” he said to his former boss. “It’s the third call in the past couple of minutes, always from the same number.”
“You’re not a cop anymore, Greg. No more emergencies. No more ruined dinners.” Josh took a bite of his Caesar salad.
Greg forced a smile. “Still I’d better check it. Could be a big problem at one of the properties.”
Josh shrugged. “Who cares? Not my concern anymore.”
“But it’s still mine. I’ll be right back.”
As he started for the small lobby, he flipped the phone open. “Yes? This is Greg.”
“Greg! You’ve got to help them!”
The skin on Greg’s skull contracted. “Who is this?”
“It’s Cilla Merkel.”
“And who do I have to help?”
“Carrie. And Andi.”
His heart skipped a beat. “Carrie’s in trouble?”
“Three men have them.”
“What do you mean, have them?” he shouted, drawing strange looks as he bolted out the door and toward his car.
“Like in kidnapping. At gunpoint.”
He had to swallow to keep that lone lettuce leaf down.
“One’s that Chaz,” Cilla continued. “I’m not certain about the other two. It’s too dark.”
“How do you know this?” She was old. Maybe she’d miss-seen. He’d hang up and call Carrie, and she’d be fine. They’d laugh about Cilla’s penchant for drama.
“Perk and I were coming back from dinner and had just pulled up in front of my place. We were looking at that hole in your building, thinking that the boards seemed wrong. Crooked or something. We weren’t certain, you know, given the parking lot lights.”
“Cilla!” Greg slammed into his car and slid the key into the ignition.
“Right. Well, we decided one of the boards had been pushed aside. While we watched, Carrie and Andi climbed out through the hole.”
So that was where the kid had been hiding.
“Then three men came next. One was Chaz. The other two had guns. They made the girls get into a car.”
Greg could hear Mr. Perkins yell, “Gray or silver Ford Taurus. Maybe beige.”
“Did they head for the causeway?” Greg’s tires squealed as he pulled onto the road. He could intercept them there.
“Don’t know yet. We’re following them.”
More amateur sleuths. “Be careful. Guns can shoot anyone who scares the bad guys even if they weren’t the original target.”
“Of course we’re being careful. Do you think we’re nuts?”
Greg didn’t say what he thought.
“They’ve turned into the alley behind the café.”
“The café?”
“Perk has parked on the cross street at the end of the alley, and we’ll keep watch until you get here. Oh no!”
Greg went cold. “What?”
“One of the—it looks like that Fred—has gotten Lindsay from upstairs.”
“Fred? As in Durning?”
“Perk doesn’t know his last name, but it’s the guy who came to the café to see you.”
Greg blew through two red lights without lessening his speed, thankful for off-season traffic. He wished he had a Kojak light.
“They’re taking them in the café. Why would they do that?”
I wish I knew. “You called 911, right?”
“Oh.”
“Cilla!”
“I tweeted.”
Greg’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel. Like that would help. “Never mind.” He flipped his phone shut, then open. He hit 911.
He got a busy signal.
He cut the call and tried again. When the dispatcher answered, some of his tension drained away.
“Stephanie, Greg Barnes. There’s a hostage situation at Carrie’s Café.”
“Got it. You’re my fourth call about it.”
“What?”
“It’s all over Twitter.”
Cilla.
“The alarm company called first. Someone gave them the hostage code,” Stephanie said. “Chief Gordon is assembling a team.”
Greg tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. Chief Gordon was intelligent, trained, and more than competent, but it would take time for him to get his people in place, time Carrie and the others might not have.
Greg rounded a final corner and pulled up behind Cilla and Mr. Perkins. He reached into the glove compartment for his Taser and restraints, which he stuck in his pocket. He grabbed his gun and flicked off the safety. He’d asked himself a thousand times why he continued to carry these things, but he knew enough about the underbelly of mankind to want some protection. Now he thanked God that he had.
As he ran for the alley, Mr. Perkins powered his window down. “They’re still inside.”
Greg waved and kept moving, noting with one part of his mind how comfortable his weapon felt in his hand. Maybe handling a gun was like riding a bicycle. The muscles and memory were always there, just waiting for recall.
He stopped at the back door to the café. He grasped the knob and turned, inch by slow inch.
Something brushed against his legs, and he froze. The movement continued. Brush, brush, brush. One leg, then the other. He looked down to see Oreo twining about his ankles, looking up at him with wide eyes.
Greg let out a breath. He reached down and moved the animal aside. “Later, kitty. Just stay out of the way.”
Slowly he turned the doorknob. Slowly he pushed open the door.
He hadn’t taken a step inside before Oreo shot past him into the café.
Greg grabbed for her, but the cat was a black meteor streaking through the dim café, lit only by the emergency lights.
So much for the element of surprise.