Chapter 2

San Francisco

Mike knocked on the second floor door of the familiar grey apartment building on Union Street. While his partner was loyal, intelligent and tough, Steve was also known to be late to work occasionally, especially if he had put in a double shift the day before. Mike figured this morning was no different and considering the time they both put in yesterday, didn't mind if the young man was a little late.

A little late, Mike thought, but three hours is enough. If he's left the phone in the fridge again so he can run his own night shift without interruptions, I'll clobber him. He smirked at the idea he could not keep up with the parade of girls that Steve talked about. It seemed like one week it was Ellen, the next it was Marie and so on.

But a sense of dread washed over him as he looked back onto the street to see Steve's Porsche parked as the lone vehicle in front of the building. With no answer, Mike jiggled the door knob to see if it was locked. Much to his surprise, it was not. The knob rotated and he was able to open the door and walk right in.

"Steve? You in here, Buddy boy?" Mike looked around the apartment when another sudden pang of nerves struck. Out of habit, he rested his hand on his gun.

He decided to give the apartment a thorough search. Dishes in the sink and his coat is laying over a chair, Mike observed. Walking back to the hall, he spoke out one more time, "Steve?"

The door to the bedroom was partially shut. He pushed it open as his heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

He first saw the writing on the wall: "Pay up or he dies!". It was just above the headboard of Steve's bed. Mike swallowed hard when he realized what was used to write the message. He looked down on the bed and saw blood all over the sheets.

What have you gotten yourself into, Steve? Who did this to you? Mike gathered his thoughts and then proceeded to make a call to his boss, Captain Rudy Olsen. He began to reach for the phone but stopped short as he realized that anything and everything in Steve's apartment could hold a clue to what happened.

Mike looked around the apartment one more time to see if anything else seemed out of place, but then decided to go make the call from his car. As he exited the apartment, he saw a man in the doorway who looked very familiar to him. He was the spitting image of Steve, only thirty years older.

Clark Smith walked up the stairs to his son's apartment and saw the door wide open. He wasn't sure what to make of it and proceeded with caution as he walked in.

"Steve?" Clark asked, hoping against hope that all was normal, but then caught sight of a taller older man in a dark coat and fedora.

Mike Stone stared at Clark Smith. "You've got to be a relative of Steve's," Mike stated as he marveled at the resemblance.

"I'm his father. Who are you?"

"I'm Lieutenant Mike Stone. Steve works for me," Mike offer to shake his hand was subdued. The whole situation seemed very surreal.

"I'm Clark Smith," he said as he extended his hand in response.

Taking in the idea that it was awfully coincidental for this man to appear when his partner was obviously in danger, Mike decided to play it straight and disclose the situation. "Mr. Smith, I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"Something's happened to Steve, hasn't it?"

"Your son is missing. It appears he's been kidnapped. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?" Mike signaled for Smith to walk back to Steve's bedroom.

"I called him last night. While we were talking, someone broke into his apartment. I heard the struggle and then the line went dead. I tried calling back, but no answer. The only thing I could do was drive up here."

"Where were you driving from, Mr. Smith?"

"Tijuana. I recently moved there," Smith began to explain further until he saw the bloody bedroom. "Oh, kiddo. I'm sorry," he said under his breath.

Mike's eyebrows arched, "Pardon me?"

Before Smith could answer, the phone on the nightstand by Steve's bed rang. Mike raised his finger to his lips to instruct silence while he answered the phone, being careful not to smudge any prints from the handset.

"Hello," Mike answered.

"Smith, you're nothing if not predictable, you know that?" Petit Jones inquired.

"Who is this and what do you want?" Mike played along.

"Oh, I think you know who I am. And if you want to see your son alive again, you'll produce the money by Friday noon or he dies. Didn't you see the writing on the wall?"

"I did," the anger in Mike's voice was unmistakable.

"Good. We're watching every move you make. I'll be in touch." Jones hung up the phone abruptly.

Mike placed the handset back on the phone and took a deep breath. He turned to Smith who was standing beside him eager to hear what was said.

But anger had the better of Mike as grabbed Steve's father by the arm and led him to the closest chair. He shoved Smith down as he demanded, "Smith, I suggest you tell me what is going on here."

Smith stared back at Stone knowing that he needed to come clean with his situation. Still he said nothing.

"Father or no father. If you don't say something, I'm going to beat it out of you."

"All right…" Smith began as he explained the story of how he came to owe the Little Monaco casino fifty thousand dollars.