I hear the boy cry, probably having realized “the cop” just sniffed some of the evidence. I zip it back up, make sure it’s sealed tight, and put it back in.
The other two shoe boxes contain heroin and crack. Looks like about two ounces of heroin and even more crack.
I look in the closet again. I notice one duffel bag and one large suitcase on rollers. I pull out the suitcase and open it.
Nothing but dirty clothing.
“You boys never do your laundry?” I ask, but don’t expect an answer.
He’s nothing but a rapist, a little piece of shit who’d probably be the one to put the 9mm I just found against the head of Amanda’s dad and pull the trigger. If he goes to jail, he’ll just come out stronger, smarter. I know I can’t leave him here, let him agonize and slowly boil over to seethe with vengeance. He’ll turn into nothin’ but a weapon, a bomb.
No, I can’t do that, so I drag him off the bed to the middle of the floor near the dirty laundry.
“Pedazo de mierda,” I tell him.
He curls up in a fetal position like he’s expecting a serious beatdown. That’ll happen, but not just yet.
“Roll on your stomach. Facedown,” I command.
“Please,” he begs.
“Now.”
I grab him by the arm and help him roll over, then I tell him, “No te muevas.”
I turn back to the suitcase and empty the contents onto the floor next to the bathroom door. I search through everything to make sure there’s nothing hidden. After that I grab my backpack and stuff the cocaine in the large compartment and zip it closed. I take the 9mm and drop it in the suitcase, but then I remember something. I take the bag of money and put it next to my backpack instead of the suitcase.
That’s when I notice that the limber fuckwad managed to slip his butt under his zip-tied hands and get his legs through so his hands are now in front. He slipped out of his left shoe in the process.
By the time I react he’s already on his feet and hobbling toward the bedroom door. I’m quick to stand and draw my weapon, but I decide not to shoot ’cause it’ll attract too much attention.
He’s making his way around the flimsy banister rails toward the top of the stairs when I get out the bedroom door. I won’t get to him in time so I kick at the top of the rail with force, like I’m kicking open a locked door. The rails split from the floorboard just enough to fall out and hit his shoulder as he’s running down the top of the stairs. It stuns him and he stops, but only for a second. He pushes up at the banister rail with his tied hands, but by that time I’m close behind. Close enough to send him a swift kick to his lower back. He can do nothing but tumble down the stairs to hit the floor, headfirst, and all bent up.
Nine
I make no apologies.
I lift the suitcase, slide it into the back of the Cross Country, and close the hatch. When I open the driver’s side door, I toss the bag of money to the passenger’s side floor and set the backpack stuffed with goodies on the passenger seat.
I remember their vehicle, the one the kid drove back to the house. I turn and see it parked along the curb.
“Damn,” I say to myself.
It doesn’t take me long to mull over all the scenarios and realize nothing will really come of leaving the car here. I’ll give the vehicle information to the police. Once the police roll onto the scene and hopefully snatch up Shiny and the rest of his crew, Shiny will figure his boy Andrés made a run for it after he learns Andrés wasn’t arrested. He’ll figure he made off with the coke, one of the guns, and the money. Obviously, if Shiny is arrested, he’ll get a defense attorney and the police will have to provide discovery, everything that was seized from the home. Those items won’t be on the list.
Another possibility—Shiny manages to elude capture; then he’ll just figure Andrés got himself locked up and all that stuff was seized by the cops. He’ll never know otherwise. It’s a win-win.
Disposing of the vehicle is not an option.
Disposing of Andrés is a necessity. It keeps whoever these boys owe for what I took away from me, because my name will probably be included in that discovery package. After all, I did rescue the girl, as unintentional as that was.
I hop in my car. I power on the cell. I know all too well the number of missed calls from Leslie and Lord knows who else that’ll pop up on the screen.
Eight.
Not as bad as I thought. Seven of them from Leslie and one a number that belongs to DC police; I recognize the prefix.
I call Leslie.
She picks up after the first ring. “What the fuck, Frankie!”
“I’ve got the information you need.”
“The police are still here. Fairfax County is sending a couple of their detectives and the girl’s parents should be here any second, so where in the hell are you?”
“Tell me when you’re ready to copy.”
“Whatever information you have related to this poor girl here you need to give directly to the police, not me.”
“Who are the DC detectives there?”