Trapped

ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES, SHORT FICTION & POETRY

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MYSTERY

January 2012

Trapped
a short story
by Ron Hummer

he raced her black Honda Civic through Main Street, passed through a yellow light, threaded her way through the traffic. She turned left on Chester Street, heard her tires screech, slammed on the brakes, shut off the engine, opened the door, then jumped out of the car.

A police car was in front of her, the red lights flashing throughout the street. Two policemen had their backs to her, their bodies bathed in a spotlight from the street light above. She drew closer, saw a third body on the floor, shook her head.

The one on the left turned, rubbed his blonde mustache with his thumbnail. He walked towards her, held the palm of his hand in front of him. "Excuse me, this is a police matter. You can’t come here."

"You don’t understand," she replied. Her voice was high pitched, almost in a nasal tone. "I’m Suzanne Regan. I’m a reporter for The Mirror. I heard the report on my police scanner."

"This man’s been hurt. He needs to go to the hospital."

"I know. I think I know him. I was supposed to meet him."

The officer nodded his head, waved her over. "All right. But the ambulance will be here any minute."

The other officer stood next to the body, ran his fingers though his dark hair. "Looks like all his fingers are broken."

She looked at the body, balled her fists together. Both arms were lying at his sides, his fingers bent at right and left angles. His left eye was black, his mouth was completely swollen. There was a small pool of blood forming around his dark hair. His diaphragm moved weakly.

"Well, do you know him?" the officer asked.

"Yes." She wiped the tears from her eyes, sniffled. "His name is Augustine Platonov. He worked as a bank teller at Richton Savings Bank. And I know who did this. It was the Russian Mafia."

The officer with the blond mustache arched his eyebrows, suppressed a grin. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I did a story on them and he was my only source. He was going to give me a log book which showed that they’ve been laundering money through his bank."

"We didn’t find a book on him," the other officer said.

She slapped her hand against her hip, gazed at Augustine. "Then they got the book. They must have tortured him for it. That’s why his fingers are broken." She gazed at the officers again, rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. "You’ve got to arrest Walter Stolorenko. He did this."

The ambulance pulled up, the back doors opened, two men came out carrying a stretcher. One man stood over the body, scratched his bald head through his sparse red hair, examined him. "Let’s get him to the hospital."

Suzanne looked at the officers, wiped the saliva off her mouth. "Are you going to arrest Walter Stolorenko?"

"We’ll check into it," the officer with the blond hair said.

She watched as the men carried Augustine in the stretcher, fought back tears, then whispered "I’m in so much trouble now."

***

The next morning, Mitchell Goldman sat at his desk, looked at the door that led to Earl Moon’s office. He sipped his coffee, glanced at the column that he was writing on Israel. Phones shrilled in the background, Luke Davis stood at the AP wire ticker checking for a story, and other reporters were typing away on their keyboards.

The door opened and Suzanne Regan stepped out. Her hair was dark, short, cut above her ears. Her eyes were dark, almost doe-like. She wore a navy blue skirt and matching jacket. She saw Mitch, walked towards him.

"Well, it seems that Mel Panzer, president of Richton Savings Bank, called Earl this morning and threatened to sue the paper unless I reveal my source."

Mitch settled back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head. "Of course, your only source is in the hospital with a coma."

"Courtesy of Walter Stolorenko. Probably called Panzer this morning" - she rolled her eyes - "and said mission accomplished. Now we can get back to business of laundering money."

"Maybe he’ll come out of his coma."

Suzanne sat down on a chair to the right of Mitch’s desk, frowned. "Doesn’t look good. And there’s a good possibility that I’ll get suspended. Or even fired."

"The only thing I can’t understand is why Stolorenko didn’t kill him."

"I don’t know. All I know is that Earl wants me to wait and see if Augustine comes out of his coma."

"Didn’t you say that Augustine has a mother?"

She rubbed her temples with her fingers, lifted her eyebrows. "Mitch, Earl said I can’t do anything. And I can’t talk to his mother anyway."

Mitch stretched his arms, put them on his knees. "Why not?"

"Because she can barely speak English. She speaks Russian."

"I speak Russian."

She smiled, patted Mitch’s hand. "I appreciate the help, but I can’t do anything."

Mitch shrugged his shoulders, grinned. "Okay. Then I’ll take it from here."

"Mitch. I don’t want you to get in trouble with Earl."

Mitch chuckled, rubbed Suzanne’s hand. "Don’t worry. I’ll handle Earl."

"Look, I’m going down for some breakfast. I appreciate all this but if Earl says no, then just let it go."

"All right." Mitch rose from his seat, took his cup of coffee, walked to Earl’s office. "Wish me luck."

"You’re going to need it."

***

Mitch reached Earl’s office, knocked on the door. "Got a minute?"

Earl turned from the window, waved Mitch in. "Shut the door." Mitch pushed it shut with his toe, watched as Earl sat down in his black swivel chair. His dark hair was short-cropped, gray at the temples. He wore silver rimmed glasses. His high cheekbones complemented a nut-brown complexion. Mitch picked out a black leather couch near the back of the office, sank into it.

"Toughest thing I had to do. Suzanne’s a great reporter and I hope that I really don’t have to suspend her." His voice was low, deep, full of sorrow.

"I know. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I’m going over to see Augustine’s mother about getting the log book."

Earl laughed, took a cigarette from the pack on his desk, lit it with a blue lighter. "That’s real funny Mitch." He put the cigarette to his lips, drew deeply, blew twin streams of smoke through his nostrils.

"Anyway, I figure that she’s at the hospital. So, I’ll stop there and see if she could give me any info."

Earl patted his cigarette, watched the ashes spread into the ashtray. "Mitch, we’ve got enough trouble on this one already. As I said to Suzanne" - he covered his mouth and coughed - "I’d just as soon wait and see if Augustine comes out of his coma."

"And if he doesn’t, then Suzanne’s out of a job and our reputation is tarnished."

Earl took another puff of his cigarette, blew smoke towards the ceiling. "You know that’s not the only thing I’m worried about."

Mitch nodded his head, pressed his lips together. "I’m listening."

"Mitch, this is the Russian Mafia. It’s no wonder that Augustine isn’t dead. I was worried that Suzanne would be hurt if they found out about her story. If you stick your nose in this, you could be joining Augustine. Or be in the morgue."

"Earl, I didn’t know you cared. But I can handle it."

The editor of The Mirror held out his hand, chewed the inside of his cheek. "Mitch, I know you were a navy seal and can handle yourself. But these are vicious killers."

Mitch rose to his feet, bobbed his head. "It’s also one of the reasons that you hired me. Of course, working at the Houston Chronicle helped. Anyway, I gotta get going. It’s 10:00 and I might be able to catch Augustine’s mother before she goes to lunch."

Earl looked at Mitch, put his cigarette in his ashtray. "Mitch. Be careful."

An hour later, Mitch walked into the waiting room of Mercy Hospital. Men and women were in the lobby, eyes affixed on the TV. Jerry Springer was hosting a show on daughters sleeping with their mother’s husbands. A fistfight broke out between the mother and the daughter. Mitch raised his eyebrows, turned away.

The reporter wondered how he was going to convince Mrs. Platonov to find the log book. She was probably going to be hostile, Mitch told himself. He walked towards the security guard, watched as he wiped the perspiration from his bald head with the heel of his hand. "I’m looking for Augustine Planatov’s mother. Have you seen her?"

"See the thin woman with the long dark hair," the guard said.

Mitch turned, saw the woman sitting in the last row at the end of the room. Yes. Thanks a lot."

The woman sat in a chair, eyes staring at the floor. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her body was thin, almost frail. She wore a flowered dress that fell near her ankles.

Mitch looked at her, forced a smile. "Mrs. Platonov?"

The woman looked up, clenched her lips together. "Yes."

"My name is Mitch Goldman. Can we talk?"

"Who are you?"

"I’m an op-ed writer for The Mirror?"

She clicked her teeth together, narrowed her eyes. "Paper that destroyed my son."

"Mrs. Platonov…."

A phone was ringing inside her pocketbook. She turned away from Mitch, opened her pocketbook, grabbed the phone, jammed it to her ear. "Hello." She turned toward Mitch, looked away, started speaking in Russian. "Don’t worry Anna. Augustine will be fine." She nodded her head, rubbed her fingers on her knee. "Anna, you can’t come here. I think I saw his car." She paused again, listened. "Anna, please don’t come here. Everything will be okay. Just stay where you are. Please. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Enough has happened already. Look, I can’t talk now. I have to go. I’ll call you later." She put the phone back in the pocketbook, glared at Mitch. "Leave me alone."

"Please Mrs. Platonov, I want to get the people who did this to your son."

"Go home reporter. Go home now before I call the police." Her hands shook, tears dripped down her face.

"I’m sorry for you and your family," Mitch said. He turned, left the lobby.

An hour later, Mitch walked into Suzanne’s office, dropped into a chair to the right of her desk, sighed. Suzanne gazed at Mitch, took a sip of her coffee, forced a smile. "Well, by the expression on your face, I see that you got no where."

Mitch nodded his head, licked his lips. "She’s really upset. And I think that Stolorenko got to her."

Suzanne lifted her eyebrows, formed the letter "o" with her lips. "Really."

"Yeah. I overheard her talking to someone named Anna on her cell phone. I guess that’s her daughter. She wanted to come to the hospital but her mother told her not to come over. Said something about seeing his car. Maybe Stolorenko threatened her."

"No, that’s not it."

"I don’t understand."

"You haven’t been reading my articles. Yes, Anna is Augustine’s sister. I did a series of articles about her regarding domestic violence."

Mitch nodded his head, rubbed his fingers on his cheek. "Go on."

"Anyway, she had been going out with a guy named Alan Phillips for about a year. A real creep. Beat her up all the time. Put her in the hospital several times."

"Did she get an order of protection?"

"Yeah, like that really helped. Alan broke it by coming back nearly two weeks later. He beat her, dragged her by her hair to the stairs and threw her down the stairs."

"Did he go to jail?"

"No. And this gets better." Suzanne opened a file draw, reached inside, came out with an article, gave it to Mitch. "Alan got a great lawyer. Got him off by saying that Anna should have left after the first beating and that he gave her money to help her mother. They even played a 911 call in the courtroom and Anna was crying. The lawyer just looked at the judge and said your honor, anyone can fake tears."

Mitch leaned back in his chair, studied the article. A photograph of Anna and Alan was at the top. Anna eyes were hazel, soft. Her hair was short, just below her ears. Alan had his arms around her, a tattoo of a spider stood on his left forearm. His eyes were dark, cold. His dark hair was thinning, a widows peek formed on top of his head. "Look at this guy. Anna is probably half his size and he beat her up. What a piece of garbage."

"Oh, and here’s the best part. Alan wrote letters to Anna. You should have seen the things he wrote. You’ll always be mine forever. Don’t ever leave me because I’ll find you wherever you go. Alan’s lawyer said that they were love letters."

"So what happened to Anna?"

"She left town."

An idea was beginning to form in the op-ed reporter’s mind. There was no definite shape or form – it was like the dough on the pizza before the sauce was about to be applied.

"I take it that this is how you met Augustine."

Suzanne took another sip of her coffee, nodded her head. "He was grateful for the article that I wrote. When he heard what was going on at the bank, he called me."

"Says here that Alan is a used car salesman at Wheeler’s. Sells Corvettes." Mitch stood up, patted Suzanne on the shoulder. "I’ll see you later."

"Mitch, you’re not planning to see Alan?"

"I always wanted to drive a Corvette. Don’t know if I could afford one."

Suzanne drew circles on her desk with her coffee mug, crossed her legs. "Mitch, why are you bothering with Alan?"

Mitch smiled, pursed his lips. "I just want to meet the creep. He gave me an idea about an op-ed piece."

"Guess there’s nothing you can do to help me."

"If I’m right, then I’ll be helping you also. Trust me."

Two hours later, Mitch pulled up in front of Wheeler’s, stepped out of his

car. Three white Corvettes sat inside the store. Alan Phillips stood outside near a red Corvette, sipped his coffee from a foam cup. Mitch stopped in front of the car, let his eyes hop-scotch between the car and Alan.

Alan stared at Mitch, smiled. "She’s a beauty, isn’t she." His voice was deep, raspy.

"Yeah, she sure is. Almost as pretty as Anna."

Alan arched his eyebrows, clicked his teeth together. "Who the hell are you?"

"Name’s Mitch Goldman. I’m an op-ed writer for The Mirror."

Alan put the coffee cup to his lips, took a log sip of his coffee, drained it. "Didn’t your paper do enough stories on me already."

"Well, one more wouldn’t hurt. I want to do a piece on how the Governor should start some legislation for a minimum of one year in jail for guys like you who break an order of protection."

"You’re looking for trouble?"

"Nope. Just a comment. I already interviewed Anna. She told me what you did to her."

"You saw her?"

"Sure did. Talked to her for an hour. She told me how you beat her up, dragged her by her hair and threw her down the stairs."

Alan crushed the coffee cup, threw it on the ground. "That’s a lie. I never did that."

"Somehow, I don’t believe you. But I’d be glad to take a comment."

Alan pointed towards the exit, clenched his lips together. "Get the hell out of here."

"Okay. My column goes to print tomorrow. Is that Alan or Allen?"

"Get the hell out of here before I kick your ass."

Mitch smiled, held his hands up. The idea was beginning to jell. "Yes, sir. Have a nice day."

Two hours later, Mitch sat in his office, read David Morrell’s book, Desperate Measures. He looked at his watch, saw that it was 7:30. He stood up, walked to the lobby, rode the elevator to the garage.

The idea was forming now. It was still at the early stages.

He glimpsed around the lot, gazed to his left, saw his red mustang in his slot. He started walking, reached it, heard a voice.

"Hold it."

Mitch turned to the right, saw Alan. "Alan. Good to see you."

Alan reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a gun. "Get in the car."

Mitch let his eyes flicker between the gun and Alan’s face. "Alan, you’re taking a real chance here. I mean, pulling a gun out on me because I’m writing a column on you."

Alan drew closer, raised the gun, pointed it at Mitch. "Get in the car now."

"Yes, sir." Mitch reached into his pocket, pulled out his set of keys, opened the door, stepped in, closed it.

"Open the door in the back."

Mitch reached over, pulled the button. Alan opened the door, dropped into the seat, shut the door. "Get going."

He started the car, let his eyes hop-scotch between Alan and the rear view window. "Where are we going?"

"Just get on to the street and the parkway. I’ll tell you where to go."

The Op-Ed reporter pulled out of the garage, drove out to the street, turned right on to the parkway. "You like jazz music?"

"No. Now shut up."

"Really. Never heard of Ramsey Lewis. Rick Braun. David Benoit. You gotta hear Strike Two from Joe Sample."

Alan put the gun in his pocket, narrowed his eyes. "Shut up you idiot and keep driving."

"Yes, sir. Maybe we can listen to it on the way back."

"There won’t be a way back for you."

An hour later, Mitch pulled up to an abandoned warehouse, turned off the ignition, stepped out of the car, shut the door. "I’m a little disappointed Alan. I thought we were going to the Trump Tower. After all, you do sell Corvettes."

Alan glared at Mitch, shoved him. "Get inside."

Mitch walked inside, stared at the dark room, felt the gun in his back. "You really should hire a decorator Alan. Get some wall paper on the walls."

"Shut up and go up the stairs." He looked at Alan out of the corner of his eye, stopped walking. Alan turned on a switch, watched the lights go on, followed Mitch up the stairs. "Get going."

He reached the top of the stairs, walked into the next room. "Now that I see room with the lights on, it’s not so bad. You should paint the walls though. Navy blue is a nice color."

"You got a big mouth, you know that."

Mitch turned, stared at Alan, shrugged his shoulders. "Guess that’s why I’m an op-ed writer. I get paid for shooting my mouth off."

"Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you?"

The reporter nodded his head, smiled. "Sure. As a matter of fact, I do."

"Really. You go ahead and tell me what I’m going to do."

Mitch stroked his jaw, grinned. The idea was finished. The pizza was out of the oven and there were mushrooms all over it. He hoped that Alan wouldn’t shoot him. "You’re going to break my fingers until I tell you where Anna is. Just like you did with Augustine."

Alan raised his eyebrows, let his chin drop. "How did you know?"

"Alan, it really wasn’t hard to figure out. Anna’s mother telling Anna that she saw your car at the hospital. And then Suzanne told me all about you. And those letters. I’ll find you wherever you go. When I heard that, I knew that you went after Augustine. You’re obsessed with Anna."

Alan pointed his gun at Mitch, moved closer. "You’re going to talk. You’re going to tell me where Anna is before I break all your fingers."

Mitch wiped his forehead with the heel of his hand, smiled. "You’re really are as stupid as you look."

Alan clenched his teeth together, narrowed his eyes.

"Okay, I’ll lay it out for you. I never met Anna. I have no idea where she is. I made the whole story up about interviewing her" - he shrugged his shoulders - "because I wanted you to kidnap me like you did Augustine. Looks like my plan worked."

Alan raised the gun, pointed it at Mitch’s head. "You mean, you tricked me?"

"Yeah, and it really wasn’t hard to do." Mitch chopped Alan’s wrist with the edge of his right hand, drove his other hand into Alan’s bicep, heard Alan scream. The gun fell from Alan’s fingers and hit the floor. Then Mitch brought his right foot up, slammed it into Alan’s face, sent Alan to the floor.

Mitch turned, grabbed the gun, looked at Alan, saw that his nose was bleeding. "Nice gun Alan. Were you going to use this on Anna when you found her."

"Drop dead."

Mitch wheeled, threw the gun in the air, watched it hit the ground.

"You’re going to regret that you did that."

"No. You’re going to regret what you did to Anna and Augustine."

Alan stood up, threw a right, missed. Mitch caught him with a left, watched his head snap back. He pivoted to the side, drove his foot into Alan’s stomach, watched him double over. Then Mitch threw an uppercut to the face, saw Alan fall to the ground again.

Alan dug into his pocket, pulled out a knife, stood up. "I’m gonna kill you," he screamed. He swiped it towards Mitch’s stomach, missed. Mitch grabbed his wrist, twisted Alan’s hand, watched the knife fall to the ground. He turned, flipped Alan over his shoulder, drove his hand back, heard the bone snap in his arm. Alan screamed in pain, hit the floor with his other hand.

"What’s more painful Alan, 10 broken fingers or a broken arm?" Mitch pulled Alan up, brought his other arm straight out like a clothesline, drove his forearm into Alan’s chin, watched him fall to the ground again. "How does it feel to be like Augustine now?"

Alan gazed at the ceiling, moaned in pain.

"You know what the best part of this is?"

"No."

Mitch reached into his breast pocket of his sports jacket, pulled out a micro cassette recorder. "I’ve got it all on tape. Activated by your voice."

"No."

"Your lawyer isn’t going to get you off this time." He put the recorder back in his pocket, smiled. "Well, guess there’s one more thing to do."

Mitch grabbed Alan by the ankle, dragged him towards the stairs. "I’d drag you by the hair but you don’t have a lot left. This is easier."

Alan gazed at Mitch, tried to pull free, failed. "You’re crazy."

"Yeah. I am."

"Let me go. Let me go."

"I’ll bet that Anna said that also."

Mitch reached the stairs, grabbed Alan by the shirt, looked into his dark eyes. "Let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine."

"No. No. No," Alan screamed.

"Mitch pushed him down the stairs, watched him roll down like a sack of garbage.

***

The next morning, Mitch shut off the tape recorder, smiled at Suzanne. She laughed, slapped her hand on her desk. "You’re unbelievable. I can’t believe that you did that."

"Yeah, it was great. Wanna hear the tape again?"

"Yes."

Mitch rewound the tape, watched as Suzanne wiped a tear from her eye. "I’m gonna lose my job because Augustine is still in a coma." She drew her lips between her teeth. "All because of that creep, Alan."

Mitch turned, gazed out the door, saw Anna and her mother. "Maybe not."

He stood up, watched as Anna ran towards him, embraced him. "Thank you Mr. Goldman."

Suzanne wiped tears from her eyes, patted Anna on the shoulder. Anna’s mother walked in, held a book in her hand. "I’m really sorry for the things I said. The police told us what you did. Anna and I went to Augustine’s apartment. Anna found this book."

"The log book." Suzanne took it, flipped though the pages. "It’s in Russian."

"Don’t worry, I’ll translate it," Mitch said. "I speak Russian."

"Really," Anna said."

"Da."

Anna kissed Mitch on the cheek, smiled. "How could I ever thank you Mr. Goldman."

"No problem Anna. Alan deserved it."