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“GARCIA.”
“Heat. Where’s Boucher?”
“Oh, I see how it is. You only talk to your homeboy from Cajunland?”
“Forget it,” Heat snarled. “Get this address down. It’s where that guy is holding Amy.”
Heat could hear Garcia hurriedly scratching down the address he’d given him down. He didn’t feel like hearing what Garcia would have to say, so Heat headed him off. “You got the address? Good. Send units. I ain’t waiting.”
Garcia jumped to his feet and waved at Boucher, who was talking to Captain Browning. "Heat's found where they took his receptionist."
Boucher hurried to catch up with Garcia, who was shouting the address to the desk sergeant. Captain Browning sighed and shook his head. He sat down at his desk and opened the middle drawer. After fiddling with the contents for a moment, Browning produced a plastic spoon and a bottle of antacid. With care not to spill a drop, he poured out a full tablespoon, took the medicine and then licked the spoon.
He picked up his cell phone and called his wife, Wilma. She listened patiently as he explained he would be late. He'd have to go to a crime scene and sort out the dead bodies. Browning winced when the inevitable question came, the one asking why his detectives couldn't handle it. Once he mentioned Heat's name, his wife's attitude changed completely. For some reason Browning never understood, his wife had a soft spot for Heat.
The phone call over, Browning looked at his antacid thoughtfully. Since it would be a while before he actually had to be at the crime scene and had just been given a pass by Wilma to be out late, a nice, hot pepperoni pizza seemed like a good idea. Having made his decision, Browning administered a proactive dose and then returned the items to their home in his desk.
A quick check reminded Browning he had too much paperwork still to finish. He put on his jacket, patted his pockets to make sure he had everything, pocketed his phone, turned the lights out in his office, locked the door, and left.
—-
FROM HIS VANTAGE POINT, Heat could see the front and side of the house. It was located in an old neighborhood that had seen better days, housing built for the many blue-collar workers following WW II. It needed a coat of paint and some work on the landscaping but otherwise looked sound. Parked in the narrow driveway was the car Amy described. In front of the house was a black BMW. Neither of the vehicles belonged to a home like the one he was watching. There was no doubt in his mind it was a safe house of sorts, and Amy was being held inside.
Heat also had no intention of waiting for the police to arrive. Each minute his receptionist and friend was held captive was another minute of abuse she likely would have to suffer. He checked the arsenal he'd brought. His .357 with extra loads along was safely ensconced in his shoulder holster. To go with the .357, Heat had a Glock 30SF, which he tucked into his pants' waistband. Spare clips for the .45 went into his pants pockets.
A final visual survey of the area revealed no lookouts, and the residents were inside or at work. Heat eased from his Pilot and, after listening for a few seconds, carefully shut the door, leaving the keys in the ignition in case he needed to make a fast getaway. Not the smartest thing to do, but worth the risk in Heat's mind. Despite the 98-degree temperature, Heat slipped on a light windbreaker to hide the .357 in his shoulder holster and the Glock in his belt. A quick pat of the right pocket of the jacket indicated his lock blade was there.
After looking both ways, Heat crossed the street and ambled along the sidewalk until he reached the driveway next to the house. It consisted of a pair of narrow strips of concrete, stained and broken, grass and weeds growing around and in between the pavement, an old design meant to save materials on construction costs.
He paused to listen and hearing nothing, continued along the side of the house towards the back yard. A neighbor’s dog began to bark, causing Heat to flinch and stop in his tracks. There, behind the chainlink fence acting as a divider between the two houses' driveways, was a black pit bull. Heat frowned at the four-legged dual security and alarm system and began to slowly approach the dog.
Reaching into the left pocket of his jacket, Heat fumbled for one of the dog treats he kept for precisely this purpose. Finding several, Heat extracted them and tossed one over the fence where it landed by the pit bull's feet. The dog glanced at the treat and then resumed his duties as an alarm system with more vigor, charging the fence. Heat smiled and squatted down, careful not to make eye contact with the excited dog.
He pointed at the treat and held his position, causing the animal to track where Heat was pointing. Confused by Heat's failure to flee and his pointing at its feet, the pit bull sniffed the area. Discovering the treat, it wolfed it down and then resumed barking. A second treat was tossed to the same location. This time the dog wasted no time eating the treat.
Heat produced yet a third treat and moved closer to the fence, holding the treat out from his body and looking away from the dog. A low pitched, threatening growl emanated from the dog who licked its chops while watching the treat. Heat tossed it through the fence and moved closer still, repeating the process with a fourth and fifth treat.
Pacified by the treats, the pit bull sat and then finally laid down facing Heat, who was still several feet from the fence. Heat stood slowly and felt for another treat in his coat pocket, finding the lone remaining treat. Aiming with care, Heat tossed the dog bone, aiming so it landed directly in front of the dog, allowing it to eat the treat without moving. He grinned as the dog made short work of the treat, licked its lips, and then laid its head down on its forelegs to sleep.
"Who's a good boy," Heat whispered, backing away and resuming his approach to the back yard. He paused to listen. Hearing nothing, Heat stepped quickly towards the gate of the chain-link fence that attached the free-standing wooden garage to the house. He worked the latch and opened the gate, stepped through, and then pulled his Glock from his waistband.
He eyed the cast concrete steps leading up to the small porch that protected the back door. One big step and Heat was atop the steps from which he eyed the worn, cracked wooden floor of the porch.
With his heart racing and blood ringing in his ears, Heat raised his Glock, examined it to make sure it was ready to fire, and muttered to no one in particular, “here goes nothing.”
—-
“BRING ME SOME MORE water.”
“Alfonso, she’s had enough.”
Alfonso’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he scowled at the younger, smaller Ben. “Haven’t got a stomach for it?”
Insulted, Ben took two quick steps closer, his chin jutting out defiantly. "I can stomach it just fine. But don't expect me to take the rap when you lose your temper and kill her, and the boss doesn't get the answers he wants."
A non-committal grunt was the response to Ben's verbal pushback. Alfonso stepped away and admired his handiwork. The bloody mess that was Amy's face resembled nothing close to the fragile, porcelain doll-like features she possessed before the torture inflicted on her.
“Fine. We’ll wait a bit. But when she comes to, she answers my questions or else.”
“You idiot,” Ben hissed in disgust. “Has it occurred to you she’s telling the truth?” Frustrated and with his hands on his hips, Ben shook his head. “I’m going outside for some air. Don’t touch her while I’m gone.”
