CHAPTER 9: Face to Face
1
"Do we deliver to what town again?"
"Palmer." Michael said. "That's P-A-L-M-E-R."
"Uh—sir, that's not really information we're supposed to share."
"I'm working with the police."
Michael's interlocutor waited, visibly waiting for him to pull out a badge or something. As soon as he had hung up the phone with Lincoln, Michael had driven to the closest Freshly restaurant some fifteen-minute ride away. That wasted enough time all to itself, without counting on the manager's reticence to cooperate. He was a balding man in the neighborhood of sixty, with one of these long faces that made Michael think of insects.
Now wasn't the time to get lost in his own thoughts.
It always happened at the worst of times, that the world around Michael suddenly took inexplicably hostile colors.
I don't have time for this, he thought.
He had to calm down. If he looked scared, paranoid, the manager wouldn't want to help him. Lincoln teased Michael about how easy it was for him to keep his anger beneath the surface. But when the whole world seemed to grow nails and teeth, when the ground under his feet opened up before him—then Michael was as helpless as anyone else.
"So," the manager prodded, "you're some kind of cop."
"I'm working with my brother, Lincoln Burrows, who's Chicago PD. I can show you a picture of his badge and get him on the phone for you if that's what you want."
The whiny tone began again, "Sir—"
"Look," Michael interrupted. "I can see you don't want to deal with this. You're running a business, you don't have time to answer questions from someone who isn't trying to buy you something. So let's make this quick, OK? The police are trying to locate someone, and we have reasons to think that person orders here. A lot."
The manager sighed. "From Palmer?"
"Yes."
"Let me check." He took out his phone and stared at the screen for a couple of minutes. Michael felt the weight of each second, sweat gathering at his temples.
"Well, Apolskis usually goes on these deliveries. His shift starts in half an hour, you can wait here if you want to talk to him."
"He does all your deliveries to Palmer?"
"Yeah. We don't get many though. Must be a quiet place."
"Real quiet," Michael said. "Thank you. I'll wait."
2
David Apolskis was a tall scrawny kid who must have gotten in a lot of trouble at school. Michael could tell because of how he kept wiping his hands on his jeans, his eyes shifting toward his feet throughout their conversation. This kid was used to having people who 'wanted to have a word with him'.
"You've got nothing to worry about," Michael said. "I just want to talk about your deliveries in Palmer."
David licked his lips and looked behind his shoulder to make sure none of their colleagues could overhear. Michael had suggested they talk outside. As all takeout restaurants, the inside was small and quickly stifling.
"Yeah, I go there," David said.
"Often?"
"Often enough. I just deliver to the one guy, though. Sometimes he's out of town for months on end but when he's there, he orders all the time."
Michael's eyes twinkled. "Just the one guy?"
"Yeah."
"Could you go and look up his name for me?"
"No need for that. I remember. Owen Kravecki," David said the words like he was spitting out a mouthful of spiders.
Michael's brain steamed and he had to make himself keep calm, take this step by step. "Does he order for one or two?"
"Usually, one. Lately though he's been getting doubles." David shrugged. "I figured maybe some relative was visiting him. He doesn't look like the type who'd keep a girl at home."
"Why not?"
David visibly didn't expect he'd have to elaborate. "Well—I don't know. Just the vibes he gives off. Like he's married to his work. Heck, if he went for fun instead of business every once in a while, he wouldn't order the same meals night after night, would he?"
"I don't suppose so."
"Why does the police want to know?" David asked. "Did he do something illegal?"
"Would that surprise you?"
David's frank laughter startled Michael. "Hell yeah. I mean, the guy wears suits in his own apartment. Wouldn't surprise me if he was a lawyer, or some FBI agent or something. Looks like the law, not a law-breaker."
"I see. Well, David, do you think Owen Kravecki will call for a delivery tonight?"
"Sure enough. Does so every night when he's in town."
"And do you think I could run that delivery for you?"
David raised his palms into the air. "Suit yourself, man. Off the record? The guy gives me the jeepers. And don't ask me why. I don't know. Why do snakes scare us? Go fucking figure."
3
Michael had never ridden a scooter before. Just one of those things he'd never felt the urge for the way Lincoln did. Lincoln's heart probably throbbed at the sight of scooters before he even reached his teens. What was the appeal again? Oh, right. Adrenaline. All Michael felt was an occasional spike of panic when he became aware that if he made a wrong move, it was just him and the ground.
True, he could have driven there with his car, but that would have been a dumb move. If 'Owen Kravecki' looked out his window to watch Michael drive off, if he took down his license plate number, that would mean trouble. Michael didn't want to make the man suspicious, which meant everything had to look perfectly ordinary.
So, scooter it was.
He parked in front of the building and the wheels squealed a little. Thank God Lincoln wasn't here right now to make fun of his uncertain parking. The bag of deliveries in one hand, Michael entered the building, drawing in even breaths to stop his heart rate from racketing. The eye of a camera winked at him on his way to the elevator, and Michael did everything to look casual, even as he took in all the information he could about the building. Owen Kravecki must be a wealthy man. Carpeted stairs, comfortable elevator, and the air smelled clean as a hospital wing. Though if Kravecki really was some sort of hotshot lawyer or government agent, why would he want to live in a place as unexciting as Palmer? If he spent as much time out of town as David said he did—well, that sounded like the ideal place for a cover. The ideal place to take a kidnapped woman to?
So much for isolated cabins in the woods. Hollywood producers would not get their kicks out of this. Just a fancy apartment in a forgettable town.
The elevator took Michael to the last floor and he noticed the absence of immediate neighbors. Owen Kravecki's apartment wasn't on the penthouse, it was the penthouse.
As Michael stood before the door, he deliberately loitered a few seconds and pricked his ear to catch the merest sound coming from the apartment.
Nothing.
Not a clock ticking, a television running or a glimpse of conversation caught unawares. Absolutely nothing.
He rang the bell.
Again, he listened for the sound of footsteps but none came.
The door opened and Michael offered his most casual smile. "Here's your order, sir."
Owen Kravecki was a tall man, with dark receding hair and a clean-shaven face. The Armani suit topped by a red tie looked impressive, but it wasn't responsible for the authority the man naturally conveyed. Michael understood immediately what about the man gave David 'the jeepers'. Kravecki had that air about him of important men utterly devoid of pity.
"You're new," he said.
"David couldn't make it that evening."
"Sick, is he?"
"The flu."
Kravecki nodded. He didn't take the bag from Michael's hand or fish his pant pockets for his wallet. Instead, his eyes appraised Michael for some ten seconds.
Any appraisal on Michael's side was unnecessary.
Some swear they never forget a face, but Michael never forgot a voice. From the first word Owen had spoken, Michael had known in his heart he was looking at the man who taunted Frank Tancredi to distraction, the man who had taken his daughter.
Michael didn't look away from his eyes, didn't allow himself to glance through the ajar door even though somewhere inside that apartment, Sara was held in captivity. She would eat the food he held in his hands right now, and she would look into those same eyes that would kill without mercy.
The thought of how close she was shook Michael's composure. Could he knock down Owen Kravecki and run for her right now? If Lincoln had been in his shoes, he surely would have. But it'd be a mistake. Owen—or whatever his real name was—was taller than Michael and probably twenty pounds heavier. Not to mention that he had experience in killing, and Michael couldn't say as much. Even spiders who sneaked into his apartment found him a lenient roommate. At first, he took them outside, but the city was such an inhospitable world to spiders that now Michael preferred cohabitation.
Even if he could do it, he didn't have it in him to kill Owen Kravecki, and the man wouldn't think twice about killing him.
Besides, if the kidnapper realized Frank Tancredi had sent Michael to look for Sara, his next move after taking care of him would be to take it out on her.
Michael forced a nervous chuckle out of his throat. "Uh, sir? Your order?"
Kravecki took the bag from his hand, but his eyes still bore into Michael's. "So, what's your name?"
"Michael," he answered. This man probably knew when people lied to him, so it was better to keep it to a minimum.
"And what'd you do, aside from playing the delivery boys?"
Michael's throat tightened.
Playing the delivery boys.
He shook himself out of the thought as quick as he could. This man had nothing on him. Instinct might be telling him that something was off, but men don't trust their instincts alone. If Michael behaved like a normal delivery boy, he would get through this, and so would Sara.
"College," Michael said.
"What'd you study?"
"Engineering."
"That's a lot of math, isn't it?"
"Yes sir."
"You must be clever."
Michael smiled. "I hope so, sir."
Finally, the man reached for his wallet. He flicked through an impressive amount of bills and pulled out a fifty. "There you go."
"Thanks a lot, sir. Have a good evening."
"You too. And when he's back at work, tell David I said hi."
"Will do."
Michael couldn't get out of the building soon enough, but he kept his pace normal and tried not to look like a rookie when he started off on the scooter. As soon as he was far enough, he stopped, grabbed his phone and called Lincoln.
"Hello?"
"I found her."
Lincoln's breath caught at the other end of the line. "You mean—you have her?"
"I mean I found the man who took her."
"Goddamn, Mike. Give me ten minutes, I can gather a team and—"
"No. This guy is smart, Linc, and the building is crammed with cameras. If he sees the police arrive, he'll kill her before your team can get to the penthouse. We want to get Sara out of there alive, we're going to have to be smart."
Lincoln sighed. "But you have an idea, though?"
Michael's lips twitched toward a smile. "Yeah. I've got an idea."
…
AN: Getting back to that fic was like seeing an old friend ;-). Please share your thoughts in the comment section.