four black-and-white surveillance photographs sprawled out on the table between us. First off, you should never leave anything lying around that you didn’t want me to look at. Secondly, my guess was they were crooks so looking at them seemed like a social service on my part. Plus, I remembered the cryptic text message I’d read earlier:
Midnight tonight. He either talks or he’s dead.
A touch on the theatrical, but hey, that’s what I lived for.
I couldn’t help but ponder what choice the “he” had made. Did his tongue take the hint, or would he meet some untimely demise? In Lincoln’s world, that wouldn’t necessarily mean a bullet. There’s a good chance it could range from a car bomb to an axe to the head. Thing was, Lincoln and his partner must be referring to a specific threat against this man that both of them knew about. Furthermore, did that text even relate to the video I’d viewed? It did follow the same conversation thread, but it remained possible it represented a totally different case.
Stealing a quick glance around the cabin, everyone had strapped themselves in for landing. Dylan chatted with his mother, Sydney cuddled next to her father, and Zander informed Alexandra why hooters should be a food group.
Status quo, coast was clear, in my book.
Looking without touching tortured my eye sockets. My fingers got all jumpy, but right when I lifted the top photograph to my eyes, Lincoln’s BlackBerry practically jumped out of the seat he’d left it in. That was an FAA no-no, so I grabbed it and thumbed down the volume before anyone could complain.
Pulling it to my eyes, another LA prefixed message lit up the screen:
Making all kinds of weird demands. Told him to kiss my ass.
I was no stranger to the donkey word. My aunt used it at least ten times an hour. It didn’t take a genius to deduce this might be the same man that if he didn’t talk, death was imminent, either. And in my humble opinion, he just might be a donkey if he didn’t take the original deal.
I shrugged away his stupidity, leaving Lincoln’s phone where I’d found it, but then it vibrated with another message. I snatched it up again, covering the noise with both hands. Clicking the screen, I nearly bit my tongue in two when I scanned the words:
Opened a locker at the subway on a tip and found someone’s foot. It was as swollen as a pregnant pig. Sick crap, so I know it was him. Gotta love this job.
I had a horrible habit of biting my nails when nervous. I’d bitten down to three nubs on my right hand, my thumb and forefinger the only two remaining looking normal. How should I respond? Throw up? Pray? Beg for a picture? I erased the history of my earlier texts, in case Lincoln felt the urge to purge his inbox. If he found out I’d assumed his identity, God only knew the ramifications. The video, however, was evidence. It seemed too important to delete.
When I focused back on the photograph, Lincoln miraculously appeared out of nowhere like one of those biblical miracles that come just in the knick of time.
’Nuff said … God and I really needed some face-time.
Lincoln’s voice grumbled, “You know, in the Middle East they’d cut your hand off for what you’re doing.”
A thwack and a thud pierced the air, then I figured out it was my conscience banging around in my brain. “Would you believe that photograph jumped into my open hand? I told it not to, but what can I say,” I giggled, “it just … would not … listen.”
Normally, Lincoln would be proprietary, but he collapsed into his seat, kneading and massaging his temples. All of a sudden I had to know firsthand what —or should I say whom —caused the tension.
“Who’s the weird little guy?”
Lincoln slid his black reading glasses on his forehead, shoving the remaining three photographs over for my appraisal. “Turkey Cardoza. These photographs were taken about six months ago when we started our investigation.”
Turkey
Midnight tonight. He either talks or he’s dead.
A touch on the theatrical, but hey, that’s what I lived for.
I couldn’t help but ponder what choice the “he” had made. Did his tongue take the hint, or would he meet some untimely demise? In Lincoln’s world, that wouldn’t necessarily mean a bullet. There’s a good chance it could range from a car bomb to an axe to the head. Thing was, Lincoln and his partner must be referring to a specific threat against this man that both of them knew about. Furthermore, did that text even relate to the video I’d viewed? It did follow the same conversation thread, but it remained possible it represented a totally different case.
Stealing a quick glance around the cabin, everyone had strapped themselves in for landing. Dylan chatted with his mother, Sydney cuddled next to her father, and Zander informed Alexandra why hooters should be a food group.
Status quo, coast was clear, in my book.
Looking without touching tortured my eye sockets. My fingers got all jumpy, but right when I lifted the top photograph to my eyes, Lincoln’s BlackBerry practically jumped out of the seat he’d left it in. That was an FAA no-no, so I grabbed it and thumbed down the volume before anyone could complain.
Pulling it to my eyes, another LA prefixed message lit up the screen:
Making all kinds of weird demands. Told him to kiss my ass.
I was no stranger to the donkey word. My aunt used it at least ten times an hour. It didn’t take a genius to deduce this might be the same man that if he didn’t talk, death was imminent, either. And in my humble opinion, he just might be a donkey if he didn’t take the original deal.
I shrugged away his stupidity, leaving Lincoln’s phone where I’d found it, but then it vibrated with another message. I snatched it up again, covering the noise with both hands. Clicking the screen, I nearly bit my tongue in two when I scanned the words:
Opened a locker at the subway on a tip and found someone’s foot. It was as swollen as a pregnant pig. Sick crap, so I know it was him. Gotta love this job.
I had a horrible habit of biting my nails when nervous. I’d bitten down to three nubs on my right hand, my thumb and forefinger the only two remaining looking normal. How should I respond? Throw up? Pray? Beg for a picture? I erased the history of my earlier texts, in case Lincoln felt the urge to purge his inbox. If he found out I’d assumed his identity, God only knew the ramifications. The video, however, was evidence. It seemed too important to delete.
When I focused back on the photograph, Lincoln miraculously appeared out of nowhere like one of those biblical miracles that come just in the knick of time.
’Nuff said … God and I really needed some face-time.
Lincoln’s voice grumbled, “You know, in the Middle East they’d cut your hand off for what you’re doing.”
A thwack and a thud pierced the air, then I figured out it was my conscience banging around in my brain. “Would you believe that photograph jumped into my open hand? I told it not to, but what can I say,” I giggled, “it just … would not … listen.”
Normally, Lincoln would be proprietary, but he collapsed into his seat, kneading and massaging his temples. All of a sudden I had to know firsthand what —or should I say whom —caused the tension.
“Who’s the weird little guy?”
Lincoln slid his black reading glasses on his forehead, shoving the remaining three photographs over for my appraisal. “Turkey Cardoza. These photographs were taken about six months ago when we started our investigation.”
Turkey
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