Book Four - Part 8 - Rhyming Evil - Chapter Sixty

Thursday – August 16th

The Squad Room – 8:38 a.m.

“A final note. Yesterday was a wonderful day. Let’s make today the same way.

“Whoever is covering Main Street from the seven hundred to sixteen-hundred blocks; keep an eye on the crowd lined up waiting to get inside A Touch Of Grace. I’d hate to see a panic breakout for any reason.”

“Yeah. My wife got so upset about them closing, she actually made me sleep on the couch like it was my fault!”

Denver Jones, a swing-shift desk clerk, switched over to fill in the gap while Rick Lowery was on vacation. This meant that Spinelli and the graveyard man, Robbie McNeal, worked twelve-hour shifts.

“Probably was your fault after all, Denver, you old reprobate,” cackled Ryan Clinton.

“When are you retiring, anyway?”

“Never!”

General laughter over the banter broke freely before Baker took back control.

“Okay, guys; If there aren't any questions, then get out there and stay safe and keep our streets safe.”

She motioned Clinton and Andrews to her side.

“Davis’s wife called in and he's caught a bug. He’ll be out until Monday. So, you \two get the saddle up together. Have a good day out there.”

Baker walked back to her office, shut behind her desk, and turned her computer on and began what she does every Thursday—a nationwide search on her unsol’s.

Fifty-seven search engines, state by state plus the FBI, CIA, CIA Canada, Interpol, Australia, South America, Africa, and Asia.

There were several cases she knew she should file away and forget about. But she held on to the belief that each missing person would one day be found, and a family would have closure and be at peace, a peace they so desperately needed.

When it came to finding the truth; quit wasn't in her job description.

2631 Seventh Street – 11:01 a.m.

His cell phone rang.

Before he answered, he pulled over a block past Maxine’s Hair Salon. To his right was a vacant lot with a sign that had the word SOLD in big red letters across it.

“This is Captain Page.”

“Hello, John. You never gave me the chance to thank you for such a beautiful gift.”

“No need to thank me, Sam. It was something I wanted to do.”

“That’s nice to know and even nicer to hear. Are you free for lunch?”

“Actually, I am. I just left the courthouse and was planning on going home to fix myself something to eat.”

“Please don't. I’m leaving to go to Del Rio’s. Why don't you meet me there, say 11:30?”

Satchell smiled.

“It’ll be closer to 11:45 for me but if I remember correctly, today is their meatloaf special. It’s the best anywhere around for miles.”

Samantha laughed.

“Then meatloaf it is.”

Del Rio’s – 12:55 p.m.

Satchell looked at his watch.

“My, God! The time has gotten away from me. I have an appointment with a plumber at my apartment at one-thirty. I really have to go, Sam.

“But I have enjoyed our time together. Thank you for the invitation.”

“My pleasure, John. And thank you for the tip on the meatloaf. You were right.”

“I’m also happy you like the locket.”

Satchell watched as she held it up and looked at it again.

“I just don’t know how you managed to have this done.”

“I gave Grace Middleton the idea and she ran with it. Give her the credit, not me.”

Samantha looked again as the clouds moved across the blue sky, and then they crossed over her and Satchell's face, etched into the background of the sky.

“This is a gift I will treasure the rest of my life.”

They made their way out to the parking lot and with an embrace that felt good to both, and a kiss that could have lingered longer, Satchell told Sam he would call Friday after work.

Five minutes later, his car was out of sight.

Amazing what A Touch Of Grace can do to spark a new romance. Wouldn’t you agree?

Baker’s Office – 4:47 p.m.

No hits. No families to call. In a way that was terrible. In another way, it was just as well. Delivering bad news, no matter the reason, is never good, even if it means finding a child long since dead.

She has seen the same look on every parent's face. The initial look of shock, followed with eyes filling with tears. Their bodies begin to shake. Some cry quietly, other scream their pain and rage for a lost son or daughter. It was the same in every place she had went; yet, each time the pain still became the road to peace, and in a way, made a difference.

Just not today.

Before she decided to leave, she looked in on Lee Austin, just to see if there were anything else she needed to know.

She saw where he applied for and received his driver’s license and a PI license. It also showed his permit to carry a standard police .38 Special. Interesting.

Then she backpedaled even further, back before Ricky, Lee’s brother was murdered. Austin Senior left both his son’s with a hunk of cash. Each received $400,000. After Ricky was buried, he had bequeathed half of that to his daughter’s and with what remained, another $30,000 to Lee. Between his and his wife’s insurance policies, after funeral expenses, there was an additional hundred-grand set aside for Ricky’s girls. At least their futures were assured.

But what future was Lee Austin going after? PI’s don’t make six-figures, yet alone a decent five-figure number.

Baker hit Ctrl/alt/del, shut off her computer and left her office, hitting the light switch on the way.

“Enough for now. I’ll worry about Lee, later.”

Friday – August 17th

The Squad Room – 8:33 a.m.

“It looks like we’ll make it into the weekend without so much as a fender-bender, a broken bone, or a black eye from anyone.

“Andrews and Clinton, keep an eye on Grace’s place, at least until after they are packed up tomorrow.

“Oooops, sorry.”

“What? No overtime, Baker?” said Clinton.

“I forgot today is Friday. Keep an eye on her place. The team tomorrow will get the memo for Grace’s then.

“And another reminder; next week, starting Tuesday, we start the drive for MDA.

“Now, I’m going to be a shameless mother for a minute.

“My son, Stevie, has brokered a deal with Insta-Printer’s, and on consignment, he has in our garage no less; 720 dozen T-shirts that look like this.”

She held one up and passed two others around where everyone could see close up what was on the shirts.

“The proceeds from the sales is a break-even venture for Insta-Printer’s. The shirt sells for ten dollars. Jerry’s Kids get to keep six of that ten.”

“Your boy is a helluva salesman, Baker.”

“I know, J.W,” smiled Baker.

“We will have five-hundred dozen shirts to sell between Tuesday and September third and we will get it done. All right, I’m finished being a shameless mother.

“Now go on and get out there and stay safe and keep our streets safe.”

LaGuardia Airport – 10:03 a.m.

Lee Austin Loaded the jetliner that would travel nonstop to London. Then he would exchange flights in Frankfurt, Germany, then go by train straight through to Vienna. There would be a twenty-hour layover as only one train travels from Vienna, to Bucharest, Romania, and that was where easy stopped.

From that point until he arrived where he believed Freddy would strike next, Lebanon; the rest of the journey would be on old roadways by bus.

If things worked out, he should be there by Wednesday. If Freddy kept the same timeline; Freddy will meet his maker.

In the holding area, inside a lead-lined trunk, was enough firepower to knock out a small village.

If need be, he would use every round on Freddy.