Weber Last Call

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-63649-129-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 340 Seiten

Reihe: Last Call

Jon Frederick is called into investigate the disappearance of a young woman who is kidnapped from a convenience store. The clock is ticking from the onset as a young woman struggles to survive and Jon puts his life on the line, while trying to mend his own damaged relationship.

Frank F. Weber is a forensic psychologist specializing in homicide, sexual assault and domestic abuse cases. He uses his unique understanding of how predator's think, knowledge of victim trauma and expert testimony in writing his true crime thrillers. He has profiled cold case homicides and narrated an investigative show on Oxygen. He has been the recipient of the President's Award from the Minnesota Correctional Association for his forensic work. His Award Winning books include 'Murder Book' (2017) 'The I-94 Murders' (2018) 'Last Call' (2019) and 'Lying Close' (September 2020). 'Burning Bridges' is set to be released (2021).

Autoren/Hrsg.

Weber, Frank F.

Leseproben

Prologue

JOHN FREDERICK

9:15 P.M., SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 2018

NORTHWESTERN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL,

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

If the only information I had about me was the situation I was in, I would hate me. I stood at the eighth-floor window of obstetrics, looking out at the night lights of Chicago. It was a beautiful city, and the Aqua skyscraper, with its warm and coral reef texture, looked like it belonged in a futuristic cartoon. My mess would be particularly unpleasant when it became public information, because I lived in a small Minnesota town—Pierz. My dad has always said, “The good news is, everybody knows everybody. The bad news is, everybody knows everybody.” God help me! I looked up at the stars and said a silent prayer.

Jada Anderson’s thick, raven hair fell across her face as she hunched into another contraction. I quickly rushed to her side. Her cocoa skin glistened with sweat. Eyes that reflected the translucence and sweetness of maple syrup, pleaded with me for relief. I attempted to get her through the pain by reminding her to focus on her breathing.

Jada was an alluring, 31-year-old newscaster for WGN in Chicago. She could down anyone in a political argument, but Jada delivered her point so graciously, people seldom walked away feeling insulted. She was about to give birth to my son. Our racial differences had never been much of an issue for us, or for our parents. The fact that we were no longer in a relationship would be, but that wasn’t my biggest trouble.

I’d have liked to believe I wasn’t a terrible person, but even killers are heroes in their own stories.

Jada and I had dated for four years, before we ended our relationship in 2015. We had a one-night tryst a little over seven months ago, which led to this moment. At the time, we were both single, working the I-94 murders in Minnesota—me as a Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, or BCA, investigator—Jada as a reporter. My decision to spend that night with Jada was about to set into motion a series of events that would ultimately cost a young woman and a man their lives.

Jada and I both came out of poverty. She grew up on the hard streets of Chicago, while I was raised on a small farm that went into foreclosure, near Pierz. Jada and I were equally intense and we invigorated each other. She was a stylish and eloquent reporter for “the most watched news station” in Minnesota, so we were invited to every major event. To be honest, I would have preferred to relax around a campfire with a couple of friends. The absence of children gnawed at me, until I couldn’t deny my desire for a family. Jada, on the other hand, already had the life she wanted.

Any child is a gift, but this particular blessing was a surprise party. Jada called me this morning in a frenzy, “Jon, you’ve got to get to Chicago—immediately! I’m seven and a half months pregnant with your son, and he’s coming today. And if there’s any doubt, you are the only possible father.”

I held my phone away from my ear, staring at it in shock. She continued, breathlessly, “Mom was attending the birthing classes with me, but she’s visiting her sister in South Carolina. She can’t get a flight out until tomorrow. Trent’s working in New York, and I can’t ask him to get back for this. You’re all I have and I’m scared. Something’s wrong...”

I caught the first flight to Chicago, even though I knew this would throw my life into chaos. If this birth was indeed the disaster Jada suggested, my child could be left spending the night in a hospital without the comfort of family. No child should be abandoned. I couldn’t live with that.

Fortunately, the baby had reached the age of viability which increased his odds of surviving to 90%. I have a bit of an obsession with numbers, so I’m keenly aware that twenty-eight weeks is a significant milestone for pregnancy. I hadn’t known, prior to twelve hours ago, that Jada was pregnant, or that the child was mine, or that she was giving birth to my son—today. After Jada and I had wrapped up our work on the I-94 murders, she accepted her dream job in Chicago and I moved to Pierz to be closer to my daughter, Nora. Now you’re starting to get a better idea of the hornet’s nest I’ve created. And there’s more to the scandal—Jada’s baby will not be my first, or last, child. Okay, just shoot me. I know it’s terrible.

Pulling me back out of my head, Jada winced and, attempting to ignore the pain, spoke as casually as she was able, “Did you see the story I did on the Latin Kings’ Supreme Regional Inca, Corona Santora?”

“No. Corona’s his first name?”

Jada grimaced and tried to adjust her body into a more comfortable position, “Corona means ‘crown.’ I believe his name is Fernando Santora, but everyone knows him as Corona. Chicago is home to the Latin Kings. The Kings and the Vice Lords are constantly battling for control of the streets here. After I interviewed Corona, his last words to me were,” she lowered her voice to imitate a man, ‘Bounce, bitch. Can’t be seen with you.’”

I smiled, “You do have a bit of a bounce these days.”

Surprised, Jada crossed her hands over her breasts, “I do, but I can’t help it—they doubled in size during the pregnancy. They’re not identical twins, more like fraternal.”

Embarrassed, I explained, “I was referring to the baby.”

Jada smiled slightly, and sighed, “Of course you were.” Relenting, she added, “Chalk that misunderstanding up to my pregnancy brain. Ugh—I can’t stop talking. It’s been like this for a month! Poor Trent.” She shifted again and hissed through another contraction. I held her hand and she squeezed mine until the pain passed.

“We were stupid to think we could ever have a shot at it again,” she said softly. “We were both so desperately lonely.” An impish smile crept across her face. “It was a hot summer night. When I unbuttoned that Twins jersey, and you saw the twins were braless, it was on.”

Jada was typically discreet, but understanding she was experiencing significant distress, I mused, “I never understood the Twins using a bear as a mascot.”

“The bear is a homonym for ‘bare twins,’” she explained with feigned seriousness. She then laughed, “And we got to it with the passion of teens worried their parents might come home early.”

Even though I couldn’t be in more trouble than I was at that moment, it felt like a conversation I shouldn’t be having, so I moved it ahead. “And when we were both exhausted, you told me, ‘I’m not sharing this couch.’”

“It’s one thing to share a bed after making love, but on a couch, you’re right on top of each other—can’t do it.”

“I hear you. I took no issue with it.”

Jada teased, “Now, I’d just tell you, ‘Bounce Bitch.’”

I smiled back, but was a little concerned about Jada’s unfiltered dialogue. She almost seemed manic compared to her typical composed and modest demeanor. The nurse was now standing outside of Jada’s room, so I pulled her aside to express my concerns. She warned that childbirth does that to some women, “So be prepared.”

When I stepped back into the room, Jada’s tone was serious, “Something’s wrong—I can feel it.” As the next contraction started, Jada pleaded, “Promise you’re not going to take my baby from me— that if I go under, the baby will still be right here when I wake up.”

I would never walk away from my child, but I could never be that cruel. I had told Jada years ago that I could never trust someone else to raise my children. At the time, I didn’t envision not living with my child’s mother. I gently held her hand, “I promise the baby will be right here. I will stay here and protect this baby while you’re sleeping, so you can sleep in peace.” I smoothed her hair off her forehead. “It’s going to be okay. You’re exactly where you need to be.”

I calmed her and reminisced about long walks we’d taken along Grand Avenue, postulating solutions to the world’s problems, before we could afford to enjoy the spices, coffee and art sold in the shops. We were daring and full of hope, and we voraciously hungerd for that exuberant vitality in the U.S. today, more than ever.

When the next contraction began, Jada swore in pain. I asked her to focus on her breathing and it seemed to help, even though I felt like a powerless fool who had little to say, other than, “You’re doing great.”

11:30...