Don Winslow - The winter of Frankie Machine

G-Sting, Frank thinks.

Strip clubs.

Teddy Migliore.

And Detroit.

“Who were the wise guys?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know,” Sherm says. “All I know is I gave them nothing. Frank, whereare you?”

“Yeah, right.”

Sherm sounds legitimately hurt. “After all these years, Frank.”

“WhatI’m thinking, Sherm.”

“You have to trustsomebody, Frank.”

Is that right? Frank thinks. Who? There were three people who knew about the existence of that bank-me, Sherm, and Mike Pella. The only one I absolutelyknow didn’t flip on me is me.

So I’d better find Mike, and I don’t know where he is. There’s somebody who might, though.

Can I trust Dave?

Because we’ve been friends for twenty years?

And because he owes me one?

It was in 2002.

Dave hadn’t made it to the Gentlemen’s Hour in two weeks.

Frank knew why.

Everyone in San Diego knew what was keeping the FBI busy-the disappearance of a seven-year-old girl from her upstairs bedroom in the suburbs. Carly Mack’s parents had put her to bed the night before, and when they went to wake her in the morning, she was gone.

Just gone.

Terrifying, Frank thought when he read about it in the paper. A parent’s worst nightmare. He couldn’t imagine how the Macks felt. He knew that moment of sheer panic when he lost sight of Jill at the mall for ten seconds. To wake up and find her gone? Right from your own house, her own bedroom?

Unimaginable.

So Frank didn’t expect to see Dave for a while. The FBI always drew kidnap cases, and he heard Dave on the radio, saying they were doing everything they could to find little Carly Mack and asking anyone with information to step forward. The media were all over this thing like gulls around a fishing trawler, demanding that the cops find little Carly. As if Dave needed the prodding-Frank knew he’d be working this one 24/7.

That’s why he was a little surprised that morning to see Dave paddling out. The tall agent was making a beeline for the break, saw Frank, then jutted his chin toward the shoulder. Frank paddled over and met him there, in the spot away from the break where a lot of the older guys went to wait for a wave or just take a breather and talk story.

Dave looked bad.

Normally serene no matter what was going on or how much pressure he was under, that morning Dave had black circles under his eyes and a look on his face that Frank had never seen.

Rage-that’s what it was, Frank decided.

Dave’s face showed rage.

“Talk to you?” Dave asked.

“Sure.”

Dave had quite a story to talk.

Carly’s parents, Tim and Jenna Mack, were swingers. Jenna had been in a local bar with a girlfriend named Annette the night before, cruising for people to take home. She’d gotten hit on by a middle-aged guy named Harold Henkel, and shot him down.

About ten o’clock, Jenna and Annette gave up on finding any fresh meat. Annette phoned her husband and he came over to the Macks’ for the same old foursome. A little disappointing, perhaps, but better than nothing.

Jenna went upstairs to check on both kids-five-year-old Matthew and little Carly-and found they were both sleeping. She kissed them both on the cheek, shut their doors, then went to the “recreation room” they’d built in the garage and got on with the party.

All four of them admitted to drinking some wine and smoking a little weed. Annette and her husband went home around 1:30 a.m.

Neither Annette nor her husband had left the rec room before heading home. Tim and Jenna didn’t look in on the kids again before they went to bed.

About nine o’clock the next morning, the brother, Matthew, went into Carly’s room to play with her. She wasn’t there. Matthew didn’t think anything of it and went downstairs to have a bowl of cereal. Tim asked him if Carly was awake and Matthew answered that he thought she was downstairs.

Jenna was still asleep.

Tim searched the house and didn’t find Carly. Getting scared, he went and looked around the neighborhood, then called the neighbors. By this time, Jenna was up, and she was starting to panic. Matthew was crying.

They called the police within fifteen minutes.

“Guess who lives a block and a half away?” Dave asked.

“Harold Henkel,” Frank said.

Dave nodded. “We brought him in. He owns an RV that he keeps parked out in the street. Said he was gone all that weekend, out in the desert near Glamis. The RV was spick-and-span, Frank. You could still smell the Pine-Sol.”

“Jesus God.”

“Monday morning, he took his jacket and some blankets to the dry cleaner’s,” Dave said. “I got a warrant, searched his house and his computer. The hard drive was full of kiddie porn. The son of a bitch did it, Frank. He took that little girl. But he’s shutting down on me and he’s about to lawyer up. If I charge him, he’ll never tell where Carly is. What if she’s still alive, Frank? What if he stuck her out in the desert someplace and the clock is running down?”

Dave’s eyes were brimming with tears. The man was about to lose it. Frank had never seen him like this before, nothing even close.

“How can I help you?” Frank asked.

“We have to find out where she is, Frank,” Dave said. “And fast. If she’s alive, we have to find her before it’s too late. If she’s dead…then the evidence is deteriorating every second. Ifwe ask him, Frank, we lose her. But if someone else could make Henkel talk…”

“Why are you asking me, Dave?” Frank asked, already knowing the answer.

“Because,” Dave answered, “you’re Frankie Machine.”

Dave booked Henkel that night, without charging him. Warned him not to leave town, then drove him in a darkened van out the back exit of the federal building to protect him from the press, took him downtown, where he could get a cab to wherever he wanted.

“You might not want to go home,” Dave warned him. “The media have your house under siege.”

Henkel got into the first cab he saw.

A block later, Frank stopped the cab, and Mike Pella came off the sidewalk, got into the backseat, and jammed a needle into Henkel’s arm before the man could react.

When Henkel woke up, he was back out in the desert, naked and tied to a chair. A man about his own age, and just a little smaller, sat on a stool in front of him, whistling an aria as he meticulously ran the blade of a fish-skinning knife down two sharpening rods that were set at forty-five-degree angles from a board.

First the right side, then the left.

The right side, then the left.

This was an expensive sharpening tool that Frank had bought to keep his even more expensive Global kitchen knives in top shape. There were few things in the world Frank despised more than a dull knife.

One of them, however, was someone who would harm a child.

That was the top of the list.

He noticed that Henkel had come to.

Small wonder that Jenna Mack hadn’t been interested. Henkel was a big man with a roll of fat around his middle. Balding on the top of his head, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee around a full mouth. Pale blue eyes that were just now widening in confusion and fear.

His RV was parked twenty feet away.

In a ravine, in the desert.

“Where am I?” he asked. “Who are you?”

Frank didn’t say anything. He just kept running the blade down the two rods, enjoying the sound of steel on stone.

“What the fuck is this?!” Henkel yelled. He strained against the ropes that held his arms tightly bound against the chair. Looked down and saw his ankles securely duct-taped to the legs of the chair.

Frank just kept whistling an aria fromGianni Schicchi.