The False Mirror Page 7

  “Boss, wait!”

  Max recognized the young guy who entered the warehouse as one of Helborgen’s soldiers. He believed his name was Richie.

  “What?!” roared Helborgen.

  The young soldier approached and stood in front of him, blocking Max’s view. The two of them whispered and then left the room. A few minutes later, Ray came back with a smug grin on his cocky face.

  “Webber,” he said cheerfully, “how come you didn’t tell me you have a daughter? Congratulations!”

  Max’s eyes widened in horror.

  “I can’t wait to meet her.” Ray rubbed his palms together. “I’m willing to bet she’s just as beautiful as her mother . . .” He flashed a wicked smile.

  “You fucking bastard!!!” Max screamed and jerked in his chair in a desperate attempt to release himself. “Don’t you dare go anywhere near my daughter or I swear I’ll destroy you and any trace of your redundant, needless existence.”

  “Ah,” he clapped. “Welcome back, Webber. At last. I’ve missed your empty threats.”

  “I’m serious, Helborgen. You won’t touch a single hair on her head.” The adrenaline coursed through his veins and made his heart pound. All he cared about was protecting his daughter.

  “Don’t worry, I have no intention of killing her,” he replied calmly. “After all, she’s Emily’s daughter . . .” He licked his lips slowly and stared at him.

  Max understood what Helborgen was implying. A terrorized expression overtook his face. “Helborgen, she doesn’t know anything,” he pleaded. “Damn it, we didn’t even tell her we were in the Witness Protection Program!”

  “Well, someone must have told her,” he gave him a doubtful glare, “because she’s at Rebecca Hershenberg’s house in Brooklyn as we speak.”

  Max looked at him in complete surprise. He could not believe Jacob had been so irresponsible to have let Becky face such danger! What was she doing in New York?

  “You should give her more credit, Webber,” continued Helborgen. “Perhaps there are a few more things she’s managed to figure out from under your nose . . .”

  “Leave her alone, Ray,” he said in a desperate voice. “She has nothing to do with what’s going on here.”

  “I’ll be the one who decides that,” he informed sternly. “But let’s just say that it would be in your best interest that she knows what I’m talking about.”

  He approached Max and took out a Jackknife out of his pocket. “And I’m not going to leave her any room for doubt . . .”

  A brisk shudder went down Richie Caprio’s spine when he heard Max’s shriek of pain. A few moments later, there was only silence. Helborgen went out and locked the door behind him.

  “Fuck, that stinking Jew’s blood got smeared on my pants,” he grumbled. He looked up and stared at Richie.

  “Give me your shirt,” he ordered him.

  Richie did as he was told.

  “Catch,” he threw the bleeding organ at him. Richie felt queasy holding it.

  “Be sure to wrap it well before you send it . . .” snickered Ray, wiping his blood-stained hands with Richie’s white T-shirt.

  That was his favorite shirt.

  “. . . And make sure that Lydia Chesterfield gets her usual rate,” he added. “It was worth paying her all these years. Thanks to the tracking bug device she installed on the grandmother’s phone, we were able to find out that the weekly calls were coming from Oklahoma. And now the news about the granddaughter in the picture . . . That greedy old hag helped us more than she could imagine.”

  “Yeah, Boss,” he nodded meekly.

  “Here, maybe you could wash it off in the laundry . . .” Ray added snidely as he tossed the stained shirt at Richie’s feet on his way out.

  CHAPTER 22

  September 15, 2013. Brooklyn, New York

  Rebecca and Becky were eating breakfast at the dining table when the doorbell rang. Becky’s heart bounced at the thought that this could be Uncle Jake, coming to take her back home.

  At the door stood a young courier with a package. Although the address on it was Rebecca’s, the name said, Becky Mitchell/Webber. The two of them thought it was strange since very few people knew about Becky’s arrival in New York, let alone her exact whereabouts.

  Becky signed the receipt and closed the door behind her.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” mumbled Rebecca.

  The young girl stared with a terrified gaze at the package in her hands. And with those hands, now trembling, she nervously untied the string laced around it.

  When she finally got the cardboard box open and realized what was inside, she shrieked in horror.

  An amputated, bloody finger lay at the bottom.

  The familiar wedding ring still embracing it.

  Next to it, a white envelope flecked with tiny red stains. It took several minutes until the girl managed to reach out her hand. She took out the note and started reading:

  Remember how Daddy taught you counting to ten with his fingers?

  Well, not anymore!

  And every day, he’ll have one less.

  Nine days to go . . .

  Becky gasped with terror. Her cell phone rang, but the caller ID was blocked.

  “Hel..Hello?” Her voice was trembling as her breathing became ragged. Tears were running down her cheeks.

  “Miss Mitchell, or should I say Webber, how pleasant to finally hear your voice . . .” she heard a masculine voice she couldn’t recognize.

  “Who is this?” she asked, confused, still having trouble breathing.

  “That doesn’t matter right now. I just wanted to make sure you got my little present . . .”

  “Wh..What?!” Panic took over her. Her eyes flickered until they fixed on the cardboard box containing her father’s severed finger. “It was you?”

  Her shriek released Rebecca from her state of shock; she leaned forward to listen to her granddaughter’s conversation.

  “If you ever want to see your father alive again,” the man’s voice instantly became chilling, “you’ll do as I say. Give me back what’s mine, and I’ll settle the debt between us.”

  “What are you talking about?” she snapped helplessly. “I don’t understand anything!”

  Rebecca got up from the sofa and walked over to Becky to hear better. “Who is it?” she held her by the shoulder.

  Becky’s glistening eyes gave away her fear.

  “Your father owes me two million bucks. If you give it back, he’ll live. If not, I’ll keep sending you parts of daddy, and you can put him back together yourself!” he laughed maniacally.

  “I don’t know anything about any money! You’re wrong!” wept Becky.

  “I’m never wrong when it comes to my money,” replied the voice with a crisp tone, lacking every bit of humanity.

  Becky couldn’t hold back her tears any longer and began to cry bitterly. Rebecca took the phone from her.

  “Who is this?” she demanded in a stern tone. “What do you want from us?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Hershenberg, long time no speak.” He paused for a brief moment and then added snidely, “Don’t worry, though, I always made sure to keep tabs on you . . .”

  A sensation of horror mixed with hostility took over her. Even though she’d never met him in person, Rebecca knew it had to be Ray Helborgen – the boss of those lowlife mobsters who had taken her daughter and family away from her. After Emily and Max had entered the Witness Protection Program, they tried to locate them at any cost. At first, they tried to bribe her, then they moved to threats, until at last they seemed to have given up.

  Well, fat chance when it comes to the mafia.

  “Your son-in-law claims he gave your daughter the money he stole from me so he wouldn’t be tempted to spend it. The problem is that his dear wife is no longer with us.” He giggled wickedly. “I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.”

  “You bastard . . .” hissed Rebecca.

  “Unfortunately, I must go now; but
the next time I call, Becky better have some good news for me. I’m sure the apple didn’t fall far from the tree . . .” he added before he hung up.

  “What is he talking about? Where am I going to get two million dollars?” asked Becky, ignoring her tears.

  Rebecca began to assemble the bits and pieces of the conversation she just heard with the information she possessed. She started realizing what was going on here – and what had to be done to put an end to it.

  “Don’t worry,” she calmed her. “Sit down, I’ll get you some water. I need to make a phone call . . .”

  CHAPTER 23

  September 15, 2013. Manhattan, New York

  Detective Davis was sitting at her desk, pondering the circumstances of Tracy Navarro’s sudden death. She had more than enough time to do it, given that the previous case she’d been assigned to had officially closed that same morning. Thanks to a thorough interrogation by Sharon, the suspect broke under the pressure and confessed even before his lawyer showed up. His admission of guilt was so detailed, leaving no doubt that he was their guy. But these types of cases were rare; it seemed that due to all those police television shows, today’s criminals knew their rights – or at least what they saw on the TV – very well, and they squeezed them to the very last drop.

  The surprising turn of events left Sharon with a few spare hours, which she dedicated to filing documents before she’d be assigned her next case – probably Tracy’s. The bureaucratic process of typing the investigation report and sending the relevant details to the district attorney’s office, who would be handling the case from now on, she had already performed on autopilot – which made her thoughts focus mostly on the victim who wasn’t yet an official part of her daily agenda.

  Tracy’s autopsy results were inconclusive and demanded further evidence. For this reason, the investigation hadn’t begun in practice, although a thorough preliminary examination had been conducted due to the victim’s high profile. Of course, it was impossible to ignore the fact that many senior figures in the political and economic system in New York had a damn good reason to want Tracy dead. And so it happened that Sharon became a detective trying to solve the death of a victim without a formal investigation procedure.

  The initial toxicology report showed, as expected, that Tracy had indeed died from cocaine overdose. The alcohol level in her blood was also extremely high. These findings weren’t too dumbfounding since her friends indicated that Tracy had announced her intentions that night to “get white girl wasted.” But damn it, the timing was suspicious.

  There was something both ironic and tragic going on: after all, if Tracy’s body had been found in that alley two weeks earlier, before the grand publication of her little black book, no one would have raised an eyebrow.

  The vibration of her cell phone in her pants pocket interrupted her thoughts. The screen displayed in large letters a very familiar name.

  “Hey, Mom,” she answered reluctantly. “I’m still at work. Can I call you back later?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you lat–“ Sharon stopped mid-sentence; she would often say that to her mother when she called at an inconvenient time. Her mother never said no to that question.

  “Mom, is everything all right?”

  “No, I need you to get over here right away.” Her voice expressed an urgency that was very untypical of her.

  “Mom, you’re starting to worry me. I told you, I’m at work right now. What’s going on?”

  “I can’t explain over the phone. I need you to get home. Now. It’s an emergency.”

  “Is Dad okay?”

  “Dad is fine, sweetheart. Please come over as soon as you can.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  ***

  Sharon marched along East 13th Street, following the increasing house numbers until she stopped in front of house number 1972. Once she noticed it, she tried to identify any remarkable or unusual indications or clues that could explain the urgent matter that demanded she drop everything and come all the way to Brooklyn. Even though she’d grown up here for her entire life, she didn’t visit her old neighborhood much – except for Sunday dinners with her parents, which mostly were postponed due to her workload.

  The house looked as peaceful as she had remembered. The flowers planted at the front of the house, African violets and hibiscuses, looked lovely and fresh, which suggested that her mother had watered them that same morning. The mailbox was empty, meaning someone had taken in the mail. The garage door was closed, indicating that no one had left the place in a hurry.

  On the surface, everything seemed to be in order.

  Her mother answered the door immediately after the first knock. Her face wore a stern expression.

  Sharon gave her a concerned stare. “Can you tell me what’s happened already?” she asked nervously. She was more worried than she allowed herself to let on.

  Her mother frowned and gestured her to come inside. When Sharon entered the living room, she was surprised to find out she wasn’t alone.

  “Mrs. Hershenberg? What are you doing here?” she blurted right away, forgetting her manners.

  Rebecca Hershenberg looked at her anxiously.

  “How are you?” she added, slightly embarrassed, as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Rebecca asked me to call you,” whispered Jill in Sharon’s ear. “Something terrible has happened to her and she needs your help.”

  Sharon’s eyes wandered across the room. Only then did she notice a young girl, about sixteen years old, sitting on the sofa and staring at her with terrified, tearful eyes.

  “Sharon, this is my granddaughter, Becky,” said Rebecca, as she noticed Sharon’s gaze fixed on the young lady.

  Sharon was quite surprised. She didn’t recall that Mrs. Hershenberg had any grandchildren.

  “Hi, Becky, I’m Sharon,” she said quickly, trying to disguise her astonishment. “I’ll help you with everything you need,” she added, attempting to cheer up the young girl.

  Becky’s eyes closed with momentary relief, but they almost instantly widened to their terrified expression.

  “She’s my Emily’s daughter,” explained Rebecca. “You remember her, right?”

  The name triggered a dim memory of a beautiful girl with dark locks and glistening hazel eyes, exactly like those of the young girl sitting before her. Emily used to babysit her as a child, but when Sharon grew older, she was completely gone from her life.

  “Yes, of course,” replied Sharon and turned to Becky, “You look just like her.”

  Becky’s brow furrowed, and she lowered her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Sharon surmised that something bad must have happened to Emily.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?” she asked softly. “I’m listening.”

  CHAPTER 24

  September 15, 2013. On the way to New York

  Jacob Stanton sat slightly hunched in his seat and looked outside the oval-shaped window that typified airplanes. Even in his forties, he was well built and in excellent shape; but now his wide, muscular physique was having trouble adapting to the cramped space assigned to him.

  He adjusted the little pillow behind his back and leaned his head backwards. His sandy-colored hair glimmered over his tanned skin, and a three-day stubble appeared on his chiseled face; since finding out about the Mitchell-Webber disaster, he hadn’t found the time to shave. He frowned sadly when he thought about Emily’s death and Brandon’s crucial injury, and a fierce line formed between his eyes. His facial features were clear and sharp as if they’d been carved in stone, reminiscent of the marble busts of great Roman warriors. The thin cicatrix of a scar under his left eye, like a line drawn in sand, only enhanced his sex appeal and accentuated his impressing features. He was a handsome man, without a doubt, but couldn’t flirt for his life, mostly because he didn’t notice when he was being pursued – which happened quite often.

  The view from the oval w
indow hadn’t changed much in the last couple of hours, beside a teal-colored vortex and a few clouds here and there. But Jacob kept gazing contemplatively over the clouds, letting his mind dispose of lingering thoughts. He was tired, exhausted even, but at this point he felt as if he’d already crossed the threshold of exhaustion until his body had forgotten how to fall asleep. The unsettling discomfort he felt in his chair, with his long legs brushing repeatedly against the back of the seat in front of him, also did its fair share of damage. He felt his muscles beginning to cramp in a slowly-building, excruciating agony.

  A light squeak drew his attention to the flight attendant, who was passing with a metal cart and serving refreshments to the passengers. Only then did he realize how hungry he was. He knew he wouldn’t have time to eat or rest once he landed. The first thing he’d do would be to drive straight to Rebecca Hershenberg’s house. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

  He was still angry at Becky for showing such recklessness, running straight into the lion’s den like this. He could understand the sensitive situation she was in and the desire to retrieve something from the family she’d lost – and perhaps a part of the identity that had been taken from her – but she should have never risked her life like that. She wasn’t a baby anymore. On the other hand, he reminded himself, she was still a kid; and she would always be his kiddo, ever since the moment her tiny hand had grasped his finger the day she was born.

  Becky, if something happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself.

  CHAPTER 25

  September 15, 2013. Brooklyn, New York